


Academic Eros

by deuxexmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:25:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuxexmycroft/pseuds/deuxexmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John's last year doing theory at university before he starts training in a hospital. But to get there, he first has to pass the infamous Dr Sherlock Holmes' Biochemistry paper ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were persistent rumours about Sherlock Holmes, the head of the Chemistry department whose tightly focused lectures and infamously difficult exams were often the subject of hatred. His Biological Chemistry paper was notorious for knocking weaker students out of a course altogether, and the way rumour developed, he'd been described to John Watson as a genius who ate his failing students for breakfast.

His first lecture one chill morning did nothing to dispel these rumours. Dr Holmes cut a sleek figure as he paced in before a captive audience of students, his low voice so directed and clear that John imagined he could deliver the lecture even without the microphone attached to his jacket pocket. There was something about his presence that commanded attention. Not one person in that lecture theatre whispered.

"Most in my line of work like to ease your minds into their subject on the first lecture." Dr Holmes' disgruntled expression made it quite clear on his thoughts on those professors. "But chemistry is not a subject to be watered down. We have a lot to get through this semester, and I'm going to assume that you've done your pre-readings. I don't talk down to the majority. I aim my lectures to students who have read what I have told them to read, completed the tasks that I have set, and arrived here today with a questioning mind." He paused, scanning the room with pale eyes that seemed to glow under the lighting. "You may ask your questions as long as they are not stupid. I decide what a stupid question is. Understood?"

There was a murmur of agreement which seemed to satisfy Dr Holmes. He turned to the blackboard, and drew out an amino acid.

"The subject is chirality, and I'm going to assume you read chapter 2 of the assigned text. Now, let's take serine as our example. The centre carbon …"

John's strengths were human biology and anatomy, so he had dutifully struggled over Dr Holmes texts during the holidays in order to play catch up. With years spent working hard to maintain a straight A average, and he wasn't going to let one paper ruin it for him.

But Dr Holmes might be his downfall.

His voice _did_ something to John, who found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on what the languid tones were actually explaining. Added to that his inexperience with the subject matter, over the next few lectures John found he was struggling to keep up. He did his best, and ended up spending a lot more time on chemistry than any of his other subjects, but it was beginning to take his toll.

Every day, John told himself he'd go and ask for help at the end of the lecture. But as soon as Dr Holmes walked in, brandishing chalk like a weapon, John found himself scared into changing his mind. Surely, if he worked a little harder, he'd understand it eventually.

He gathered up his courage a few weeks before the first exam, on realisation that if he didn't, he'd never pass.

Dr Holmes dismissed them that day as usual, with a lazy flick of a pale hand. As everyone around him packed up to leave, John gathered his notes and made his way to the front, swallowing down his nervousness.

"Dr Holmes-" he started, but the man flung out a hand to interrupt him. He was scribbling away in a yellowing notebook. John patiently waited until he was finished, when the professor stood straight and swivelled his attention to John much like a search light.

"What is it?" Sherlock questioned, eyes narrowed.

John inhaled, then started again. "Dr Holmes, I-"

"Sherlock."

John mentally replaced the name in his head before continuing. "I'm having some trouble with understanding how enantiomers work differently in a living system. It's really interesting, but-"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't mock me." At John's bewildered expression, he rolled his eyes and clarified. "Don't pretend to find it interesting."

John shook his head, horrified. "No, sir, Sherlock, I really-" he started, only to be talked over again.

"I know what you are." Sherlock snapped his notebook shut with an air of finality. "A medical student, an over emotional creature who wants to dedicate his life to 'helping people' but has to pass my Biochemistry paper in order to get that chance." He ran his eyes over John, and his mouth twitched into an almost sneer, unimpressed. "You're not here because you want to be, you're listening to me because you have to. So please, before you continue, remember that I can see through any inane suck up that you may care to throw in my direction."

John felt his face grow hot in embarrassment. Luckily, the theatre was emptying quickly. The few students left crowded the exits, ignorant of Sherlock's put down. "I'm sorry," John blurted out. "You're right, I'm here because I need the credits. But this subject is necessary for a reason, and if I ignore it to concentrate on what I'm good at I'll make a worse doctor for it. I don't just want to pass this paper. I want an A." He coughed, and stared at his feet. "And for that I need … well, I just need a few things clarified."

Sherlock wasn't even looking at him, having turned away to pull on a long wool coat that flapped around his calves. "Read a textbook," he said shortly.

"I need your help," John insisted. "I won't take up to much of your time. I'm not stupid. But reading something over and over won't magically make me understand it."

Sherlock sniffed, and stared into the middle distance for a while. "I have another lecture," he said eventually. "Come to my office at five and I shall do my best to elucidate any problems that you may be having. Come prepared. If you show up with an empty brain and ask me to fill it for you, I will send you away."

John blinked hurriedly. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. "Sherlock."

"Mm." Sherlock turned and swept out of the theatre, leaving John standing awkwardly by the lectern.

  
* * *

  
Sherlock's office was by the newest chemistry lab, an easy to ignore door that John had the sneaking suspicion was purposefully hidden away. But his name was on the engraving, and John knocked neatly on the door.

"Come in, John," called out Sherlock. John couldn't help but grin. He stepped in and shut the door neatly behind him.

If bare, Sherlock's office would be a decent size. It was made smaller by piles of books, a haphazard collection of files, paperwork and marking strewn apparently at random into various in and out boxes. Sherlock also seemed to have his own little experiment on mouse skeletons going on in the corner, the chemical agent they were floating in giving the room a rather pungent odour.

"Would you like me to open a window?" asked Sherlock slyly from his desk, his dark hair curling over his forehead as he leant up.

"It's fine," John coughed, but Sherlock grabbed a pole by his desk and reached back with it, deftly flicking the window open. His shirt stretched over his lithe chest as he moved, and John felt his face heat.

Despite his initial disdain, Sherlock turned out to be a fantastic teacher. He quickly clocked that John was eager to learn, and took the time to go over basic concepts before bringing John back up to speed with the lectures. Time flew by, and when John glanced out the window he was surprised to see it had gotten dark.

"I think I should go," he said, smiling up at Sherlock, who silently watched him over steepled fingers. "Let you get back to your experiments."

"Yes." Sherlock was unmoving, eyes tracing over John's figure as if mentally weighing him up. "Well. You aren't as dull as I thought you'd be, John Watson. Feel free to drop by if you have any other questions."

"I probably will." John pulled his bag over his shoulder, glancing at his watch. "First exam coming up and all."

"You are going to have to work extremely hard to get your A," Sherlock remarked. "That exam is 25% of your final grade for my paper."

John nodded. "You're, uh … you're writing it, aren't you?"

"I have written it," Sherlock corrected him. "Quite a while back. And no, I'm not going to give you any hints."

"I never asked for hints!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock smiled briefly at him. "Goodbye, John. Shut the door on your way out."

 

* * *

 

John was utterly murdered by the exam.

He knew he hadn't done his best after sweating in the exam hall for an hour, the rather vicious shouting match with his father over the phone just before doing nothing to calm his nerves, but he was disappointed in himself. The returned paper slapped down on his desk, the first C-minus John had ever received in his life, barely a pass. It was low enough to scupper his chances at an A in the final.

"Sherlock!" he called out, bursting into the man's office, waving his paper in the air. "Sherlock, I got a-"

"C-minus," Sherlock replied, swivelling around in his seat and snapping his textbook on natural poisons shut. "I know."

"Oh." John deflated a little. He stood limply by the doorway as Sherlock considered him.

"Sit down, John."

John slumped, boneless, and Sherlock leant closer.

"What happened?"

"It was my fault." John ran a hand through his hair, wincing. "I got myself worked up. I forgot everything, I overthought everything. It was a horrible, horrible exam."

It was _Sherlock's_ exam.

"And what do you expect me to do about that?" Sherlock said coldly. "Trying to make me feel sorry for you, hm?"

"Of course not!" John exclaimed. "I just … I thought …" He cleared his throat uneasily. "If there was any way ... I could scrap this mark and have my final exam weigh more heavily? I know I can do better."

"Out of the question," Sherlock said swiftly, shaking his head. "Now, if that is all-"

"Please!" John exclaimed. "I can do this, I know it. You know it." He slapped his hands down on Sherlock's desk, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John was determined. "Let me prove it."

Sherlock dropped his book to the desk. It landed with a thump that rattled John's nerves. Sherlock clasped his long hands together and rested his chin, eyes lazily staring into his own. "John," he said, unhurried. "What are you doing this evening?"

John blinked, confused by the change of subject. "Library and then home, I guess."

"Wrong." Sherlock slapped his own hands on the desk, and John flinched back. "You're coming to dinner with me."

John stammered. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are." A slight smile, perceptive, as if Sherlock had already deduced John's little crush on him.

After a pause, John said, "That's against the rules."

"So is demanding I change university policy in your favour." Sherlock relaxed back, comfortably elegant as he crossed his legs and looked John over. "And don't be silly, John. You love breaking rules. Staff still gossip about your fresher year."

John couldn't suppress his smile, and Sherlock continued.

"I'll pick you up at your flat at 8:30." He gestured vaguely towards his collection of paperwork. "The address is on file. Dress smart casual, leaning towards smart, I'm going to take you out somewhere nice."

"Sherlock, I …" John stopped. It was like his tongue had dried up, and he found he had nothing to say. But surely this was a win-win situation? He'd innocently fantasised about Sherlock since he first saw him, despite what was more than a ten year age gap. The feeling lingered, though, that what was going on here was quite out of his depth. He sighed, smiled nervously at his feet. "Never mind."

"I _don't_ mind," said Sherlock. "Off you go, now. And call your parents back and tell them I think their son is a fine, intelligent young man and a dedicated student, and if they want him to do well they need to stop harassing him." He shook his head at John's honest surprise. "Your troubles are written over you. I simply see what others don't."

"It was just my dad," John said quietly. "But thank you."

"Mm." Sherlock glanced over him again. "Of course."

John hurried home, leaving Sherlock with his nose buried in his book.

 

* * *

 

"Date night?"

John twisted over his shoulder to see Sarah Sawyer leaning on the bathroom doorframe in her pyjamas and a dressing gown, a knowing smile on her face. She looked exceptionally pretty, even with no makeup.

"Sort of," John said as he turned back to the mirror to run his hands through his hair again, jittery with nerves. Time leapt haphazardly forward every time he glanced at his watch, and he'd changed his shirt three times already. Every time he looked in the mirror he heard Sherlock's voice in his head, a cold, cutting remark, and his confidence crumbled all over again.

" _Sort of_?" Sarah sounded intrigued. She looked over her shoulder towards the living room, where the TV was blaring. "Hey, Mike! John's got a sort-of date!"

"John's always got a sort-of date!" Mike called back in mock jealously.

"Sarah," John chided. He tugged at his cuffs, covering up his wrists. "It's just dinner," he said lamely. It wasn't a date. People who aren't dating go to dinner together all the time.

"Are you wearing cologne?"

John stared beseechingly at the ceiling.

"Sorry!" Sarah laughed, pushing herself upright. "She must be something special to get this sort of reaction from you. You were so smooth on our first date. None of this."

"You're a mate, and you always have been. I couldn't be nervous around you if I tried."

"And this girl's not a mate?"

John gave her reflection a look, and Sarah laughed again. "Alright, alright. You don't want to gossip."

The doorbell rang out, and the clock said 8:32.

"Shit!" John exclaimed, suddenly skittish. "Oh, bloody hell!"

He was calmed by Sarah, who came forward in a rush of sweet smelling shampoo and floaty dressing gown to comb her fingers through his hair, letting the strands fall neatly to his forehead. She adjusted his collar, then flicked open the top button of his shirt with a wicked smile. "You go have fun," she said. "You look great."

"You're a diamond, Sarah," John breathed, kissing her on the forehead. He grabbed his keys and wallet, and dashed for the door.

  
* * *

  
"I don't think I have enough money for a black cab," John said, rifling through his wallet as he settled back into his seat. And he really, really didn't. Not if he wanted to have more than a garden salad for dinner.

Sherlock waved his hand, staring out the window at the lights flashing by, their momentary glow emphasising the sharp angles of his face. He looked different out in the city, instead of pacing around in a lecture theatre or cloistered away in his office. "Don't worry about it."

That set of warning alarms in John's head. "I'm not letting you pay for me," he said firmly.

"It's not a problem."

John sat up straight. "I'm not letting you pay for me," he repeated, because that would change everything.

Sherlock slowly turned his head to stare straight at John. "I'm _not_ paying for you," he replied, and his pale eyes narrowed, like John was being purposefully ignorant. "We're eating somewhere where I get meals on the house, as the owner owes me a tremendous favour. So, you can afford the taxi. And, as I said, your monetary situation is not a problem."

It wasn't like he was being rude, but John felt thrown. He had to remember to blink. "Oh," he said lamely. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly, as if amused by the notion that anything John said would have an effect on him, and turned his gaze back out the window. "Ah," he announced with a brief smile. "We've arrived."

The restaurant was busy, as all the good ones were at this time of night. Sherlock threw a bunch of notes at the driver and jumped out onto the pavement, sweeping off towards to entrance in a whirl of expensive wool coat while John tried to work out what he owed. After a bit of back and forth with the driver he rushed after Sherlock, clutching awkwardly at his wallet.

"Hello, Peter," said Sherlock, smiling his polite society smile at the waiter who held the door open for them. John was given a friendly but thorough look over as he walked through, questioning eyes flicking between him and Sherlock. They were rushed to "Dr Holmes' favourite table" by the owner, who seemed very eager to see them, and after an enthusiastic conversation with a rather less animated Sherlock, they were left with their menus and a newly lit candle. Sherlock wore a dark suit under his coat, the cut casually elegant, and he'd unbuttoned the jacket to reveal a very tight fitting white shirt.

John made a quiet humming noise and firmly directed his eyes away. "He's giving us free food, you know," he said, flipping open the menu. "You could at least try to be polite."

"I _was_ being polite," said Sherlock, peeved. "I did introductions, and I smiled at him." He peered over at what John was reading. "May I suggest the cacio e pepe? Angelo has quite a talent for it."

"I was thinking pizza," said John, with a slight smile at Sherlock's scoff. "Alright, what are you having?"

Sherlock leant back, curling his hands together under his chin. "I've already eaten."

John frowned. "Is this some sort of loophole? We're not eating together, so it's okay?"

Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowed. Then he huffed a laugh and turned away, gesturing for service.

The waiter quickly came over to take their order, and they must have been at the top of a list of some sort because it was a very short time before John had his four seasons pizza and lemonade placed in front of him. Sherlock had a glass of water that he didn't even look at, choosing instead to glare at John's pizza like it was personally insulting him. But John was interested in other things, namely the achingly courteous service.

"It's like you're the mayor!"

"I've met the mayor, actually" said Sherlock, with a slight smile at John's astonishment.

"Oh yeah, for that award." John remembered the gossip amongst the students during the first lecture, one of the many talking points about Dr Holmes. "One of the countries top ten lecturers, right?"

Sherlock shrugged it off like it was nothing. "It wasn't particularly surprising. I'm good at what I put my mind to, and I take great care over my lectures." He smirked slyly at John. "Not that you pay much attention to them."

"I do!" John protested. "I'm just … not so good at chemistry."

"Then one can only wonder if you've chosen the right profession, especially considering how important drugs are in modern medicine."

"That's pharmacology, not chemistry," John pointed out. He started cutting the pizza up into slices so he'd have something to do with his hands.

Sherlock didn't sigh, or roll his eyes, but still somehow projected his impatience at John's continual missing of the point. "It's applied chemistry. Much like most things in the world." He pointed at John's food with the tips of his steepled fingers. "Like your pizza, for example."

John glanced up. "Huh?"

"Cooking, John." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the meal. "Chemical reactions, protein denaturing, precise measurements at a certain temperature. Cooking, as the saying goes, is merely chemistry for the hungry."

"Like molecular gastronomists," said John, taking a deliberate bite of pizza.

"Quite," said Sherlock, with an air of finality. He was getting bored. "Now, we're not at university. Tell me about yourself."

John swallowed awkwardly around his food. "Why?"

"Isn't that what people do?"

John picked at the edge of his placemat. "I'm not that interesting," he said. Nor was he interested in talking about himself to someone who'd be able to construct an estimate of his past after a five minute conversation.

But Sherlock didn't take his word for it. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

"You've got my file," John reminded him, a little bit defensive. His reticence seemed to spark something off in Sherlock, who leant forward in interest at the prospect of something to solve.

"Oh, of course," he said, voice disconcertingly soft as he pinned John with that piercing gaze. "Your file tells a whole story. You're smart, adventurous, not above a bit of rule breaking. You wanted to go on a gap year before starting university, but you couldn't afford it. Although you care about your family, you don't get along with them, but still you ache for their acceptance and put a lot more effort into maintaining the relationship then they do. And you're a second child, your older sibling most likely female."

He paused, looking John up and down again, his eyes lingering over John's tense posture.

"And you've only ever dated women. But every so often you're attracted to a man, although so far you've been far too nervous to act on such a ... difficult impulse."

John stood up, his chair loudly scraping backwards across the floor. "Have you been asking questions about me?" he demanded, feeling a swell of rage.

Sherlock stared up at him with a hint of pride in his eyes. "Sit down, John," he said gently.

John carefully lowered himself to his seat, eyes downcast. His hands were clenched into fists on his lap. "None of that is on my file, on _any_ file. Who the bloody hell have you been talking to?"

"I read between the lines, and I've spent a lot of time in your company," Sherlock said in reply, as though that explained everything. "Simple."

"How?" John was honestly curious. "How did you figure all that out?"

Sherlock yearned for an attentive listener. His pale eyes lit up, and he was suddenly a lot more demonstrative. "You're 22 years old, which means you didn't have a gap year. Fine, some students don't, but you crave new experiences. You're obviously adventurous. You moved about as far from your family as possible to come to a whole new city on your own, of course a gap year was something you wanted to do. But you're a student on a means tested scholarship. So, you couldn't afford it."

There'd been plans. John and a couple of his mates, touring Australia and New Zealand. He'd been 18 years old and desperate to see the world.

"… Yes," he said, ducking his head. Sherlock continued.

"And your family. You always, always take calls from your father, even if it's just him yelling at you. That says you want his approval, and he knows it, so he continues to treat you however you like."

John's stomach twisted. "What about me having older sister?" he challenged.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, you're obviously a second child."

John crinkled his brow in confusion.

"And it's because of her that you're very comfortable around women your own age." Sherlock leant forward ever so slightly. "I would say that you're used to them, much more so than you are with men, with whom you always … restrain yourself." His eyes flickered over John, as if calculating. Waiting.

John relented with a smile. "I really want to yell at you to shut up," he admitted. "But all I can think of is how amazing that was."

Sherlock looked almost comically surprised. "Really?

"Absolutely," said John earnestly.

"Oh." Sherlock sat back. "Thank you." He sounded genuinely pleased, and John smiled at that.

"You can do that thing with … anyone?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, of course. It's a hobby of mine."

John could only stare in wonder. "Don't get mad when I say this, but why the hell are you a lecturer with a skill like that?" Sherlock chuckled, but John was serious. "You should be a police detective!" he exclaimed. "Or … a psychiatrist! Actually, scratch that, you would be a terrifying psychiatrist …"

Sherlock gave an insincere smile. "I have been told that I am not very comforting."

John raised his eyebrows. "By who?"

"Most people."

John shook his head determinedly. "You can be nice." At Sherlock's questioning look, he clarified. "Like … you're being nice now."

And he _was_ being nice. John remembered when he'd been terrified to even talk to Dr Holmes, but here and now, he was good company, in his own strange way. John had yet again started pondering Sherlock's exact intentions for their dinner when a warm hand pressed over his own, giving the slightest press.

"How do you know I'm not just pretending, so I can soften you up for later advances?" Sherlock murmured. John felt a rush of arousal at the elegant fingers stroking over his own.

"You were planning on … advancing?" He'd aimed for nonchalant, but his voice was tellingly shaky. Sherlock, of course, noticed.

John ended up taking half his pizza back. He'd ordered a large (it was free food) but hesitated at stuffing his face, and Sherlock's easy abstinence made him feel like a glutton in comparison. But he'd been given a box to take it home in.

With now limited funds, they took the Underground back to the station nearest John's. Sherlock pointed out little details about their fellow passengers for his own entertainment, whispering his deductions in John's ear. The missing wedding ring. Shaving foam clinging by the ear. An old photograph in a wallet. Mud stains spattering the hem of a skirt.

It was easy to see how Sherlock was such a celebrated chemist as well as a teacher. He noticed everything.

They walked back in easy companionship, not arm in arm, but close nonetheless. Sherlock was kind enough to slow his long steps, allowing John to keep up. John felt a thrill jolt down his spine whenever their shoulders brushed, a stupid thrill. He hadn't felt this way since he was a teenager.

Sherlock stopped at the junction that turned into John's street. He swivelled to look down at John, his dark hair curling delicately over his forehead, and all John could think about was how strangely attractive he was. And this man had sought John out on purpose, had found his company to be worth bending a few rules for. The thought simultaneously warmed him and turned his stomach to jelly.

"I had a good time," he said, knowing that Sherlock would want to leave now. He couldn't exactly walk John to his doorstep.

Sherlock sighed up at the sky. "Why must you end an enjoyable evening with a phrase of such crushing mediocrity?"

"Because I am crushingly mediocre."

Sherlock lips twitched, then he met John's gaze and returned the wry smile. He abruptly reached up to stroke a hand through John's hair, narrowing his eyes. His thumb brushed over John's heated ear.

John was completely out of his depth. He leant hesitantly forward, in a movement far more confident than he actually felt, and Sherlock's other hand came to rest almost accidently against his side. He dipped his head tantalisingly closer to John's, casting a shadow over John's face, but there was still a visible shine in his pale, alien eyes.

John could see the beginnings of thought lines on Sherlock's forehead. He could see every fragile eyelash. He wondered what Sherlock, frightfully observant Sherlock, could read from John's skin.

It was the first time John had ever leant up so far for a kiss. Sherlock's hands slipped around to encircle John's waist, pulling him slightly off balance and holding him there, flush against his front. John was almost clumsy with nervousness, and at the dreaded teeth click he felt Sherlock smirk against his mouth. Kissing Sherlock was different from kissing a girl. There was a rasp of stubble at his upper lip and chin, and the smells were wrong, intoxicatingly so. He opened his eyes mid kiss to see Sherlock's gaze boring into him.

John broke away hurriedly. It was too much. "I better get back," he said.

"Of course," said Sherlock, his stare unnerving now. He caught John's hand before he slipped away, held him there.

"I need to get back," John protested, and then froze when Sherlock ducked down to press his lips to John's wrist, right over the pulse point. John felt him inhale against his skin, and repressed a shiver. Sherlock hadn't stopped staring.

"Good night, John," Sherlock said. Then he spun on his heel and swept away, pacing down the streets the way they'd walked up.

John stumbled home, clutching at his half-a-pizza, fumbling for the keys in his pocket with numb fingers.  

 

***

 

It was just a kiss. Kisses didn't mean dinners were suddenly rerecorded by history into dates. It wasn't as though he and Sherlock were dating after John, so mesmerised by his professor, had tripped and fallen upwards onto Sherlock's mouth.

"You okay?" chirped Molly. She'd popped out of nowhere to see John sitting alone on a hallway bench by the lecture theatre, head in his hands after a rather intense exchange of glances with Sherlock over crowded heads. His notes were barely legible, he'd been so nervous.

Molly sat down next to him, tucking her skirt under her legs. John could see her huge brown eyes blinking in his peripheral vision, and turned to smile weakly at her. "I'm fine. Just … yeah. Fine."

He suspected his face said differently. He didn't have access to a mirror, but he was pretty certain his expression was more along the lines of 'I am completely and utterly fucked'.

"Ahuh." Molly returned the smile. "Suuuure."

There was a creak, and the door from the theatre swung open.

Molly whipped around with a little gasp and John wasn't even looking but he recognised the collection of slender shapes out of the corner of his eye as though his brain had a special Sherlock Holmes filter. He was carrying a very heavy looking stack of textbooks, straining at the weight, and sure enough as he passed them, his muscles gave up and the books tumbled to the ground. Molly leapt to her feet, her face brilliant red.

"Dr Holmes!" she exclaimed. "You can't take these all the way to your office!" She immediately knelt and started scooping the books into a pile, as Sherlock rubbed at his back.

"Thank you, Molly," he said. "But there's no need."

"Let me carry some," Molly said, blinking up hopefully at him through the wisps of her fringe. She seemed so vulnerable at that moment. John felt a strong surge of protectiveness well up.

"I couldn't possibly ask you to help," Sherlock said, and his eyes narrowed as she stood again, scrutinising. He gestured at her face. "New haircut?"

Molly practically wriggled with glee. She flicked her hair. "Just a trim!"

She looked ecstatic that Sherlock had noticed. But Sherlock didn't seem to notice her feelings. The corners of his mouth tugged down, and he stood up straighter. "You looked better before," he told her, waving his hand towards her. "Your face looks … overwhelmed, now."

John stared at the ceiling as a shocked Molly scrambled to collect her scattered self confidence. She muttered a hurried goodbye and dashed away, her voice trembling a little. Sherlock shrugged off her reaction, reaching down to pluck up half of the stacked books. His critical gaze flicked inevitably to John, who had given up trying to pretend he hadn't noticed him.  John looked back, trying to visibly communicate his embarrassment.

"Why did you say that?"

The rest of the books were nudged pointedly towards him by a foot. "John." Sherlock had decided to ignore his question. "Would you?"

It wasn't like John could politely say no. He pulled himself wearily upwards. "That was … completely unnecessary," he said loudly, hefting the rest of the books into his arms. They were as heavy as they looked, and he huffed in exertion. Turned to continue his rant, he discovered Sherlock had already moved on, expecting John to follow. He had to trot to keep up. "Sher- Dr Holmes!"

"Come along, John!" called Sherlock, sweeping around a corner.

Students bustled past John, who was finding it very difficult to keep an eye on where he was going as well as stop the books sliding off onto the floor. He saw the fluttering of Sherlock's coat towards the elevators and made a beeline for him, apologising profusely to the people he knocked into. He was panting by the time he caught up.

"Why did you talk like that to Molly?" he demanded.

The lift pinged open. "Ah," said Sherlock with a pleased grin, moving in. John sighed, giving up, and followed. "Can you press the button?"

He had to put the books down to do it. His shoulders ached with sudden weightlessness. The doors clashed shut, and with a whirr they were pulled upwards.

"Is there a particular reason you took out the whole library?" John asked, tugging the books up again. Dust from the covers spun up into his face, and he wrinkled his nose to withhold any sneezing. "Can you even take this many books out?"

"These are my books," Sherlock said, moving out as the doors slid open. He set off down the corridor towards the labs and his office, and John followed easily, knowing the way. "I bought them."

"Then, for future reference, I think it's best you buy them a few at a time," John puffed. He swayed unsteadily by the door as Sherlock fiddled with the keys, then dumped them gratefully on the floor once inside. He groaned in relief, stretching upwards and lifting his arms straight over his head. "Or maybe enlist the help of a crane …"

Sherlock slammed the door shut behind them.

He darted forward and scooped John into his arms, still mid-stretch. John yelped in surprise as Sherlock _lifted_ , and he was pulled onto his tiptoes against Sherlock's chest, panting a little. Sherlock stared at him, like he was some sort of curiosity. An interesting outcome to an experiment, but one he could have predicted nonetheless.

His lips were warm and soft, gentle kisses, the press of his nose against John's cheek, every exhale hot over his skin. John slid his hand up from Sherlock's chest, dragging against the fabric up his sloping shoulders, and around his neck, his arms brushing against Sherlock's black curls. He murmured into the kiss and opened his mouth into Sherlock's searching tongue.

It was different from last time. There were no shadows obscuring just who he was with, and they weren't outside of the university grounds anymore. He was here, in Sherlock's office, surrounded by text books and lecture plans.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," John breathed when they broke apart, feeling the heat rise over his cheeks as Sherlock stared unashamedly at John's mouth, trying to control his breathing.

He nodded vaguely, and tugged John in again. "Maybe," he rumbled, sealing John's half-formed protests with another kiss.

There was absolutely no room. When Sherlock pushed John against some shelves, paperwork was sent fluttering down, essays to be marked and lab reports to be checked spilling across the floor. He seemed to really want to pin John down, although John wasn't going anywhere. They ended up pressed against Sherlock's desk, with John partially sitting on it, gasping against increasingly greedy kisses.

He pulled back, with the realisation that he was in danger of getting hard. Sherlock let him go, smoothing his hands over John's shoulders to as if to memorise his shape, concentrating intensely in a way that should have made John feel uncomfortable, but didn't.

"What do you want?" he asked, slightly breathless. Sherlock glanced up, pale eyes and hair tousled from John's fingers.

"Your notes are illegible," he said simply, eyes flicking over to John's open bag.

John blinked at him, momentarily thrown. "What?"

Sherlock peered back. "When I look at you, you can't concentrate. It's not embarrassment from wishing you hadn't kissed me, it's the signs of a growing attraction. Attraction that I reciprocate." He slid his hands to John's thighs, fingers stroking almost absently against John's jeans, and his eyelids dipped. "I want what you want."

"Look," John started, slightly flustered. "You were right, last night. I've never done anything with guys before. I mean, I want to. But …"

The look Sherlock gave him was first exasperation having his deductions doubted, and then something approaching kindness. But he had a slight smirk that played almost invisible at the edges of swollen lips. "That's fine," he said quietly, unblinking. "We'll start slow."

The door was locked. The open window was four stories up and faced nothing but the sky, letting in only late afternoon light that spilled against John's back as he scrambled more securely onto the desk. They had their privacy.

Sherlock coaxed his mouth against John's again, although this this time he was incredibly focused, like he'd learnt what turned John on and was intent on pushing all those buttons simultaneously, bringing him back to a twisting, needy mess on the desk as quickly as possible. John gripped at Sherlock's shoulders and inhaled sharply as the steadily lowering touches crept over his belly, then smoothed easily under his shirt, tugging it up. They broke apart so John could pull his shirt off and then went right back to kissing.

He let Sherlock touch him, and touched nervously in return, unsure if he'd ever get used to the hard shape of a man's body compared to the soft curves of a girl. He couldn't quite bring himself to lower his hands past Sherlock's waist. It was even more galling in that John was used to being confident and in control with his partners, but his experiences were useless with Sherlock. He was, for the first time in a while, scared of doing it wrong.

"Let me show you how it's done," Sherlock whispered against his ear, mouthing at the lobe. John shuddered.

"Oh, god, yes," he blurted out as Sherlock unzipped his jeans and pressed a warm, long fingered hand right over him. He was achingly hard from teasing touches, and at Sherlock's gentle squeeze he had to bite back a moan.

"Responsive," observed Sherlock, and now the smirk was no longer hidden. "Good."

John had always noticed Sherlock's slender hands, their graceful competence, the elegant way he gesticulated when explaining a difficult concept.

He'd never expected to see the same hands in a situation like this, effortlessly bringing John to completion. His insides curled and he squirmed against the desk, feet slipping on the floor and his head thrown back with Sherlock's arm around his waist, Sherlock's hand thrusting fast between them. He came far too quickly with a breathless moan, face heated and flushed red with arousal.

"Your turn," Sherlock growled, his eyes flickering wildly over John, and John tugged at the professor's belt with shaking fingers, his vision still a little blurry. Sherlock braced himself on the desk over John so he could get a good view of both John's body and his hands that wrapped hesitantly around Sherlock's hard cock. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment when John cautiously thumbed at the head.

It didn't take much to get him off. John replicated the things he liked done to himself, but it was Sherlock's hiss of "harder!" between clenched teeth that did him in. He squeezed tighter, his other hand moving up Sherlock's shirt to scrape at his slender back, feeling the vibrations under his skin as he slowly came undone.

Sherlock shouted, voice hoarse, and spilt over John's hand and wrist. In a flurry of recklessness, Sherlock reached around to pull John over him and they collapsed ungracefully to the floor, limbs splayed over the scattered papers. John half-heartedly tried to pull away, but Sherlock held him close.

Draped over Sherlock's prone form, John's chest rubbed over shirt buttons, his jeans around his thighs. Sherlock was feeling him, his hands smoothing warm trails up and down John's skin, moving over his waist, his arse, the small of his back, and scraping up into his hair to tug him into a sloppy kiss. John moved lazily with him, the angle of their mouths making it awkward, but he was long passed caring.

When they pulled apart, Sherlock looked happily triumphant. "Would you like an A?" he whispered, playing with the hair over John's ear.

"Yeah," John said. He was a little shocked. "But not like that."

Sherlock smiled his clever smile.

They sat up, backs against the desk, and soaked in the afterglow. Slowly, they pulled themselves together, redressing and buttoning up, straightening out each others clothes.

"I need your phone number," Sherlock said, playing with the collar of John's shirt.

John didn't want to refuse him, but he felt uncomfortable. "Look," he said slowly. "I'm not sure about this."

Sherlock tilted his head, questioning. "What aren't you sure about?"

"If we get found out …" John broke off, swallowed, and stared out the window. "I just … well. You could lose your job. And I …"

"You're worried about your friends finding out that you are bisexual?" Sherlock looked disgruntled. "You are who you are, John."

"You'd get _fired_ ," John said, folding his arms.

Sherlock scoffed, and swept around to the side of his desk, pulling out a chair. "We are both consenting adults," he said in reply, dropping down and steepling his fingers. "What we do together is nobody elses business."

John shook his head. "You know that this is different. For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you just offered me an A for giving you a handjob!"

"I was joking," said Sherlock mildly. "I require a lot more than a handjob for an A."

"You're impossible," said John through gritted teeth, and he ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Sherlock just watched him.

"Phone number."

"It's on file," John told him, and he picked up his bag and left before he said anything stupid, shutting the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock texted him the next morning.

John's phone was on vibrate, but he'd left it on the bedside table and the noise of drumming wood was as loud to his ears as a ringtone. He awoke with a snuffling noise and reached out blindly to grab, bringing the screen towards his sleep blurry eyes.

 _Found you.  
SH_

An image flashed through his mind of Sherlock down at the administration building, combing agitatedly through all of John's records to try and find one bit of paperwork that had his mobile number on it. He smiled and texted back a 'well done', then crawled back to his pillow, eyes clenched shut to block the morning light from his thin curtains. It was the weekend. He deserved a lie in.

They started texting often after that, although John deleted every one after replying and he never dared to save Sherlock as a contact. Instead he memorised the string of digits that popped up with every new message, until they were as familiar to him as his own.

Sarah had stopped bothering him about meeting the new girlfriend, but she and Mike still exchanged glances whenever they caught him curled up on the couch making moon eyes at his phone.

"He's totally in love," Mike would whisper from the kitchen.

" _Whipped_ ," Sarah would reply.

John cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. "I can hear you, you know," he called out, and sent Sherlock a link to _Chemist's in the Kitchen_ on Amazon.

  
* * *

  
"Oh, this is lovely!" exclaimed Molly in a breath of excited happiness. Her footsteps grew livelier as they trailed into the little Japanese restaurant and took a table for four. "Thank you so much, guys."

Mike, in a flourish of politeness, pulled out her chair for her and Molly giggled as she sat, tucking an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. She had her fringe pinned back, something John had noticed straight away with an unpleasant stab of second-hand embarrassment, but he had to admit that Sherlock was right. She looked a lot prettier like this, the hair off her face highlighting her delicate bone structure.

"Presents now or later?" he asked, turning to Sarah for guidance.

"I think after dinner," said Sarah, smiling over at Molly. "What do you think, birthday girl?"

"After dinner," agreed Molly. "I'm starving!"

The waiter came over and took their orders with much bowing and smiling politeness. Molly practically bounced in her seat with excitement when she realised there was a window at the back where she could watch her bento box being put together. They chatted pleasantly, but John was a little distracted. Sherlock hadn't texted him back all day, and he was usually quick to respond.

It should be nice in here, with soft mood lighting and comfy chairs, courteous service, eagerly consuming sushi with his friends. But Sherlock's unusual silence was like a mood dampener to John. He had the horrible impression that he was dragging the atmosphere down, and made an effort to appear more normal.

"You're the last of us to turn 22," Mike said, grinning nervously at Molly. "Aah, I remember my 22nd."

"I don't," said John, stabbing at his sushi with the chopsticks. He scrunched up his eyes in fake memory. "I woke up the next day with a naked girl, though, so it must have been fun."

Sarah pulled a polite smile and kicked John viciously under the table. John hid his grin.

Molly giggled uncertainly. "Well, I'm planning on having a quieter night than that." She dipped her head, a blush patching up on her cheeks. "Jim's taking me to see a musical this evening."

"Oh, yes!" Sarah sat bolt upright. "Do tell us about this new boy of yours."

"He's lovely," Molly confessed. "I met him at one of Dr Holmes's lectures."

John quickly looked up at the name before belatedly realising that Molly was talking about some else. "Science major or med?" he asked lamely. "Maybe I know him."

Molly shook her head. "No, he's doing Computer Science. But he goes to Dr Holmes's lectures for fun."

"For _fun!?_ " exclaimed Sarah, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead.

"I guess he relaxes by teaching himself astrophysics," said Mike moodily.

"He's really really smart." Molly's voice came out in a rush, a little higher pitched than usual. "I'll have to get him to meet you guys at some point, but he's very quiet and shy. I think he wants to take it slow -"

John's ringtone cut through the conversation, and he scrambled for his phone, checking the screen. "It's my sister," he said, a little deflated. "I've got to take this. Sorry Molly, I'll be back in a tick."

He rushed out, ignoring horrified glances from the other patrons at the noise, and answered his phone. Harry's voice came barking through immediately. "Johnny!" she called out. John sighed and leant on the cold brick wall of the restaurant, staring at his feet. The cars zoomed by with their windows rolled up, and people rushed past him wrapped in warm coats and scarves. The air had grown chilly. He wished he'd thought to grab his jacket before he came outside.

"Hey Harry," he replied. "How are you?"

"Johnny, sweetie, baby brother." She sounded a little tipsy, and from the background noise she was probably outside somewhere. "I need a favour."

 _Of course_ , thought John, scratching his head. "What's up?"

"Vicky's kicked me out. I need a place to stay until she calms the fuck down. Can I crash on your couch for a bit?"

John worried at the collar of his shirt, and made a quiet humming sound. He, Mike and Sarah were all studying for their finals, and Harry had always been curious bordering on nosy. When tipsy, she was loud, and liable to bother people until they paid attention to her. She wouldn't really help the revision atmosphere.

He cleared his throat, knowing he was going to ask something that wasn't wanted. "Can't you stay at dad's?"

Harry huffed a breath down the phone. "And spend the whole time with him not so subtly suggesting I get a boyfriend? Spare me."

"Look, Harry, I know it's awkward." John rubbed at his arms, and cradled the phone closer to his cheek. "But me and my flatmates have pretty major exams coming up. We can't … well, it's tricky to concentrate on revision when there's a stranger wandering around in your house."

"Aww," Harry pleaded. "Come on, Johnny. Please."

John scratched agitatedly at the back of his neck, shuddering closer to the brick wall. He scuffed his feet, delaying, then came to a decision. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it," he said, trying to sound firm and unsure if he managed it. "If it were any other time you could. But these are important exams."

"You want me to stay at _dad's_."

John sighed. "Just … lock yourself in your room if he gets too annoying. Don't drink, and be polite when you talk to him. Please."

Harry stayed silent for a moment, and then John heard her start pacing. "Aah, fuck. Fine then. Fine."

"I'm sorry," John said earnestly.

"That's okay baby brother. I wouldn't want to scupper your medical ambitions."

John slouched in relief. "I'll buy you a mansion when I'm a millionaire brain surgeon."

"I'm gonna hold you to that!" Harry called, and rung off. John sighed, rolling his head back against the brick, and pocketed his phone. He felt, as he always did after conversation with his sister, a little used. She only ever called when she wanted something from him.

"Penny for them?" came a low voice, and John jumped.

"Jesus!" he called out, whirling around to see Sherlock standing about three feet away, hands deep in his pockets, the breeze rustling his black curls. He looked pale and stern in the fading light. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I needed to stretch my legs. Sometimes that office is a little claustrophobic." He smiled thinly, and held out a gloved hand. "Perhaps you'd like to join me."

John reached out automatically, a smile slowly spreading across his face, before a strong gust of nastily chill wind blew and reminded him that he was standing out in the street without a coat, here for Molly birthday. He pulled back and gestured over his shoulder. "Let me grab my jacket."

Sherlock ducked his head. "Of course."

John dashed back into the restaurant, the bells jangling with his return, and the sudden warmth was far too snug. He darted around to his table and smiled apologetically at his friends. "I've gotta dash, guys."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Molly, eyes wide. John handed over her present and chucked down enough money for his food and a tip.

"Sorry," he said. "It's … my sister. Enjoy the musical."

"Don't let her use you John!" called out Sarah in a warning tone, and John nodded absently, tugging on his jacket and pushing back into the cold outside.

Sherlock stood there waiting for him, his tall, gaunt figure a little distance away. His head turned at the noise from the door, and his eyes flickered over John's form. John jogged over and slid his hand through the proffered arm, grinning up at Sherlock's watchful expression. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock looked skywards, a smile twitching at the edges of his lips. "Up."

  
* * *

  
Apparently, Sherlock's idea of a stretching the legs involved clambering up fire exits, jumping over roofs and ducking down archways to hidden stairwells. John was incredibly glad that he had a sporting background, because otherwise he'd have collapsed with a stitch a few minutes in. Sherlock was a machine, impervious to discomfort and exhaustion, but he slowed for John, helping him up when John's smaller height proved disadvantageous.

They ended up on the roof of a tall apartment building, and from that impressive height they were part of the city skyline. John stood by Sherlock's side as he caught his breath, held close by Sherlock's arm around his waist. He pretended to admire the scenery long after it had become boring, secretly watching the glowing lights sketch in the angles of Sherlock's face.

When he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, the wool prickled the side of his head. "I had no idea you could pick locks," he mused, brow creased.

"I'm remarkably talented in multiple disciplines," Sherlock said, squeezing the arm around John's waist and shooting him a perceptive grin. John smiled absently in return, wondering whether to bring up the unanswered texts and then deciding against it. It would be a shame to spoil Sherlock's good mood.

"I missed this," he said instead, playing with the strands of Sherlock's scarf. Sherlock's attention snapped to him, away from the slowly darkening city.

"Fascinating," he murmured, his fingers clutching in John's side. John glanced up at him, confused.

"What?" he asked, jumping a little when Sherlock pulled him closer.

"Only two kisses and you already miss me in my absence," he remarked. His expression was neutral, but a fond smile hid in his pale eyes.

John had to stand on his tiptoes to reach his lips. "Three," he muttered, yanking Sherlock's neck downwards and doing it again. "Four."

"Obviously I was referring to different times and places, not the actual number of kisses," Sherlock said peevishly against John's mouth. "So technically that only counts as one."

"Shut up," John ordered, his hands wrapping into Sherlock's scarf.

"Okay," said Sherlock agreeably, pulling John against him and wrapping the coat around them both. His mouth was warm and searching, pleasant, a snog with no end-point in mind. John tilted his head and licked between soft lips, and Sherlock hummed against him, pleased.

"I could do this for hours," John confessed, breathing in the warm air between their faces.

"If you're going to nag at me to shut up, then you could at least follow your own rules," Sherlock told him with a hint of irritation. Then, in a completely different tone of voice. "How long do you have?"

"Not hours," John admitted.

"Pity," Sherlock sighed. John stroked a hand down his back.

"You can kiss me until the sun sets completely," he offered, a compromise. Sherlock pursed his lips and considered.

"Three and a half minutes."

Sherlock's estimate, of course, was completely accurate. Three and a half minutes later the sun vanished, and he abruptly stopped kissing John, instead dragging him to the concrete. John got home late, his legs a little wobbly from a rather fantastic blowjob on the apartment roof. He pretended to look depressed when Sarah gave him a worried smile from the living room, but really, he felt like he was walking on clouds.

  
***

  
They saw each other often, although apparently not as often as Sherlock would have liked. After a few days of separation he had a tendency to swoop down on John at inopportune moments, like when John had stopped for a quick lunch at one of the university's cafés and turned to find Sherlock standing right behind him in the queue. He was practically breathing down John's neck.

"No," John whispered in a rather shocked tone, brushing off Sherlock's hand at his waist and trying to act casual.

"Why not?" replied Sherlock at normal volume.

John wanted to slap him. "There are people everywhere!" he hissed. "Look, the Anatomy department teaching fellow is _right there_."

Dr Gray was flicking through a magazine at a nearby table, eating her tuna salad. Sherlock stared with an air of boredom for about five seconds before speaking. "She's sleeping with the Vice-Chancellor, I'm sure she won't judge." He ducked down closer to John's ear. "Look at the creases on her skirt."

John studiously ignored the breath over his skin and politely paid for his sandwich, jumping out of the queue and marching off as far away from Sherlock as possible. He was so frazzled that he ended up wandering randomly around the campus for about half an hour, biting absently at food that did nothing to fill him.

In truth, he was frustrated. First, he wanted nothing more than to sit Sherlock down and yell at him for a bit, but that impulse quickly faded. Sherlock was genuinely brilliant, a genius in many ways, but he could be quite out of touch socially and John suspected that it was unintentional. Sherlock simply didn't get the social cues that other people did. Nothing flagged up at appropriate moments to tell him that it wasn't alright to touch a student in front of a dozen witnesses. Or call out a colleague's sex life in public.

But it wasn't all bad. The occasions when Sherlock approached him in private and whisked him away for stolen moments in his office, or texted him to meet up for long walks down streets where they wouldn't be recognised, were some of the happiest times that John could remember having.

  
***

  
One Friday afternoon, John was practically rendered speechless when he walked into his latest biochem lab to the unexpected sight of Sherlock in a stained labcoat, scribbling about cholesterol assay on the board. Sherlock waved a placating hand at the confused murmurs of the students, finishing off his writing.

"Your usual demonstrator is off sick today," he explained, irritated, as though they should have worked out as much for themselves. "I'll be leading the lab. If you have any complaints, lodge them with the head of the department." He flashed an insincere smile. "Which is me."

After the start-up talk he left them well enough alone to get on with their experiments, occasionally sweeping around the room to loom ominously behind anyone who had poor technique. John repressed a flinch when he felt Sherlock's bony hand press over his shoulder blades as his work was examined, not daring to look around. But thankfully, Sherlock just hummed in consideration before moving on.

"Bloody hell," murmured Peter, another med student who sat at John's table. "Tell me I'm not alone when I say Dr Holmes scares the hell out of me."

There were frantic nods, and John self-consciously busied himself with measuring out peroxidase for his reagent as people quietly exchanged horror stories.

"You guys seem pretty close," said Mary, John's occasional lab partner. John blanked, terrified at her possible insinuation before he realised that the question was perfectly innocent.

"Back at the beginning I was having trouble with his paper. He helped me out, and I got to know him." He shrugged, and binned his pipette tip. "After a while, he's not that bad."

Peter shivered. "Seriously? Man, I wouldn't step foot in that office, even if I was failing." He leant forward on his elbows, his voice dropping even lower. "I had a paper to hand in once, a little bit behind, you know. Anyway, I opened the door to his office when he called me in, and I kid you not, he had a fucking _human head_ on ice in the corner of his room." He paused for effect, mouthing 'human head' again. "I chucked my paper down on the nearest shelf and ran for it."

"It was from St Barts Hospital Morgue," said Sherlock, morphing out of nowhere with a crooked smile on his face. "Nothing sinister. I assure you I haven't been murdering my failing students. Although …" He leant down and traced a long finger over Peter's lab report, down a row of numbers, frowning. Peter shrank to the side, bug-eyed. "Your results are off. Zero the spectrometer with your reagent and do it again."

And he stalked off, leaving the table in a sort of fearful awe.

At the end of the lab, after Sherlock's wrap up, the cluster of students quickly thinned towards the exit as shucked off labcoats and started talking about the weekend. Mary stood and started to collect in the reports, as she always did, but Sherlock stopped her.

"You can go," he ordered. "John can do it."

"I'm the class rep, sir," said Mary uncertainly, but at Sherlock's pointed look she dropped the reports and left.

John sighed and put his bag back down. He continued where she left off, neatly stacking the papers as he moved around the room. Sherlock watched his sulk with something like amusement from the front of the lab, clearing his explanation from the board with lazy sweeps of the eraser.

"Lock the door while you're there, John."

John froze where he stood, staring questioningly at Sherlock. "Here?"

Sherlock looked back, unhelpfully silent, and tilted his head. Perhaps his suggestion was some sort of challenge. John pursed his lips. He slid the papers to one arm and flicked the lock with a sure twist, then continued with his job like nothing was out of the ordinary. Sherlock's neutral expression broke into a smirk that only grew wider when John traipsed over, dropping the papers onto the desk with an air of defiance.

"We need to talk."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, eyes flickering over John's expression. "About anything in particular?" he asked, leaning his elbow on the papers, far to close for the sort of conversation John wanted to be having. "Or do you just like to listen to my voice?"

He was teasing. John found it incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact. "About us," he said quietly.

"Us," Sherlock repeated, emphasising the _s_ like the word was unfamiliar to him.

John narrowed his eyes. "Yes, us," he said determinedly. "This thing we're having. Where it's going, what we're doing."

Sherlock stared off to the side. With a tsk of annoyance he moved away and sat at his chair, sliding the papers into his bag. "We're in a locked laboratory having dull conversation."

"Do you want to hear what I have to say, or are you just going to insult me?" John said, and it came out angrier than he intended.

Sherlock glanced up at him, curious. "Not particularly," he said, narrowing his eyes. "But from the set of your jaw I suspect you're going to tell me regardless."

John scraped around for the right words, wishing he'd thought this out a bit better. "I feel like you don't respect me," he said weakly

"How intuitive," said Sherlock, relaxing back in his seat and pressing his palms together. "You realise, of course, that I don't respect anybody."

"You don't like me as much as I like you," John tried again.

Sherlock snorted in disdain. "If you're using 'like' as a preteen euphemism for sexual attraction, then on the contrary. I find you exceptionally charming." He smiled briefly. "Even when you're scowling at me like that."

"I mean emotionally," John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "Same thing."

John hesitantly stepped closer, leaning on the desk by Sherlock's chair. He worried at the wood with his fingernail, stared at his feet. Sherlock watched with that calculated patience of his, like he wanted to see what John would do next and didn't want to spoil the natural result. "Would you …" John started, his eyes resting somewhere over Sherlock's head. "Would you say we're in a relationship, then?"

Sherlock raised a curved eyebrow. "This is a very roundabout way of asking me out, John."

John sniffed. "Oh. Forget it," he said, and abruptly stood to storm for the exit. Sherlock made a strange breathy noise and stood with him, snatching him back by the hand. There was a momentary flicker of panic over his features that froze John in place.

"We're in a relationship of sorts and I find your company enjoyable," he said brusquely, pulling John towards him with that inhumanly strong grip.

"Sherlock …"

"In fact, I think you're the difficult one." Sherlock inhaled deeply, his eyes fixed on John's. "You push me away one minute and come running to me the next. I hardly know how to act."

"Don't pretend I confuse you," retorted John, tugging his hand away. "I only say no when there are other people around. It's reasonable."

Sherlock practically rolled his eyes at the ceiling, like John was some sort of over-concerned idiot. "Oh, who cares what they think. We are adults and if we want to date then we can date."

"Sherlock," said John, eyes wide. "You really, really can't play stupid about this."

Sherlock's retort cut off, his mouth clamping shut. John stood firmly in place as Sherlock looked over him again, as if from another perspective, and ran a jittery hand through his hair. He looked angry. "Fine, you want to talk about us?" he said pithily. "I consider us to be in a relationship, if a casual one, and while I hate sneaking around people to be with you, I don't mind putting up with it until you finish the last of your time here. Then we can be more open."

John gaped a little. "You want to keep seeing me after I start my training?" he asked faintly.

Sherlock looked disconcerted. "You'll still be in London," he said slowly. "So I don't see why not."

John was flabbergasted that Sherlock had even considered their future. It was a thought that John had tortured himself with on a regular basis as the days ticked down until the final exams. Out of politeness and a fear of driving him away, he'd never brought up any concerns with Sherlock, but it appeared that Sherlock had taken their continuing relationship for granted. He certainly seemed rather confused at John's reaction, his brows crinkling endearingly together as he frowned.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

John blinked hurriedly, composing himself. "Like what? I'm not looking at you like anything," he mumbled. "I just, well, I had no idea that you, you know …"

"… Stop talking," said Sherlock clearly, interrupting his rambling. John smiled shyly up at him.

"Sorry."

Sherlock gave him a faintly amused smile, reaching out and brushing a hand through John's hair. John leant into the touch, staring into suddenly attentive pale eyes that flickered over his skin. Focused on him.

"You've locked the door," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah," John answered, and he stepped forward, reaching up to press a nervous kiss to Sherlock's lips that was reciprocated immediately. After pulling off their labcoats -- "Hygiene," said John seriously -- they settled into a furious few minutes of blissful snogging, a push and pull of dominance that Sherlock always won. He pressed John to the wall behind the desk in a movement that threatened to tear the periodic table that hung neatly on the wall, and deepened the kiss into one that had John gasping with want.

"Why do you always want to pin me against something?" he asked breathlessly, unable to look away from Sherlock's reddened lips.

"Because you always try to escape," Sherlock murmured, smiling slyly, punctuating each word with a chaste press of mouths, then melted against John with a searing kiss, his hands gripping and sliding up John's back.

They'd been together enough times for John to learn the differences in Sherlock kissing for the sake of kissing, and Sherlock attempting to work John up for something more.

This was definitely the latter.

John's blurry mind stuttered through the implications as Sherlock pushed incessantly at his shoulders. They were comfortable with touching each other, and though Sherlock had gone down on him several times, he'd never asked John to reciprocate before. But now, John could hardly ignore the way Sherlock kept guiding him downwards with a long-fingered hand at the back of his head.

John looked up at Sherlock's darkened eyes and slowly knelt, his back pressed to the wall. Sherlock's hand slid from his hair to smooth over his cheek, thumbing his lower lip, and John realised he was shaking with nervousness.

He forged ahead regardless, moving a little out of his own head as if on a mission. He fumbled, unbuckling a smooth leather belt and undoing Sherlock's trousers with shaky fingers to reveal that Sherlock was already hard, straining at his underwear. John palmed him through the hot material, breathing loudly through his mouth. He felt very much like he was going to jump off a very high building.

"Sherlock," he said in a rather high pitched voice, shutting his eyes.

He felt Sherlock's fingers curl around his hands and pull them away, heard the crumple of material as he knelt down and pulled John's head to his chest as if to soothe him.

"I'm sorry," muttered John uselessly, pressing his lips apologetically to Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock said nothing, and John trailed kisses up Sherlock's slender neck, his jawline, nibbled on his bottom lip with his eyes wide open to gather up any sort of response. Eventually, Sherlock smiled into John's kiss and wrapped his arms around him, gently moving him onto the laboratory floor and crawling over him.

John stared up at him with something like reverence. Sherlock was gorgeous, his sinuous body pressed over John, hot and hard, his hands cupping John's face and holding him there for another greedy kiss, licking into John's mouth and gently sucking his lips.

"We could try something else," Sherlock huffed, breaking away. His body was between John's thighs, and his implications were perfectly understandable.

"Not here," said John, once he'd caught his breath. He shifted uncomfortably. "Can we just …" He brushed his hand between them, over Sherlock's groin, squeezed. "You know?" John was comfortable with handjobs. He understood them.

"I have a better idea," said Sherlock, sitting back and unzipping John's jeans. "One that won't damage your sensibilities."

"What?" exclaimed John, as Sherlock manhandled him onto his side. He yelped in shock as Sherlock yanked down his jeans and boxers in one go, tangling material around his knees. The air tingled his skin. "Sherlock!"

"Intercrural," purred Sherlock, his tongue languid over the vowels. He reached over to his bag that leant by the desk and retrieved a bottle of lube, barely supressing a smirk when he turned back to rake his all-seeing eyes over John.

"Sherlock," whispered John, as Sherlock disappeared wordlessly behind him. He sighed as a hand smoothed firmly up and down his side, skimming his hips, and felt soft lips against his earlobe, a breath against his jawline. There was a click of a bottle cap, and Sherlock started to slick himself up, huffing possessively against John's neck. "You have no idea what you do to me," rumbled the low voice, so close to John's ear it made him shudder.

There was sudden coldness against his thighs. Sherlock had spilt lube over him.

"You get angry when I talk to you in public, but you really have no idea. You cannot begin to comprehend. When I see your little blond head, hear your silly babbling, it's all I can do not to drag you somewhere private and fuck you senseless." John gasped as Sherlock pressed, sliding between John's closed thighs, slicked with lube. "You should be incredibly grateful for my self control."

Sherlock smoothly reached around to thumb the head of John's cock, sending a pulse of pleasure up John's spine. "Sherlock," John croaked, scratching at the floor as Sherlock began to thrust. He squeezed his thighs and Sherlock groaned, his grip on John faltering, and John wrapped smaller hand with Sherlock's to guide the strokes.

It was so much more of Sherlock than he was used to having, even if they were both still mostly clothed. Sherlock draped warmly against his back, working himself into a sweat as he pushed determinedly between John's legs, brushing John's balls with each stroke. He thrust his fist tight and hard over John's cock, mouthing over John's back and shoulders with more teeth than was probably necessary, reducing John to a squirming, whining mess on the floor.

It was only a few minutes before it was too much for John. His toes curled and his body started shaking, and he came with a choked moan, flailing in Sherlock's grip.

"Let me go," he said urgently, rolling an indignant Sherlock onto his back. Any complaint Sherlock may have voiced was quickly silenced when John moved down, sucking Sherlock's slicked cock into his mouth before his mind psyched him out of it. It was probably an awful blowjob, but he knew vaguely what felt good on himself, and the feeling of Sherlock's usually carefully controlled body falling apart around his mouth as he replicated it was a turn on in itself. He hollowed his cheeks and took as much as possible, sucking and licking the throbbing flesh.

"John," gasped Sherlock, in a wonderfully tremulous voice. His hands brushed hesitantly through his hair. "John, I'm going to …"

John quickly pulled back and finished Sherlock off by hand, watching Sherlock's head dip back, his pale skin flashing in the harsh lighting as he moved against the floor, his dark hair spilling off his forehead. His mouth was wide open, gaping in pleasure.

"John," Sherlock breathed, and came over his stomach, his rucked up shirt, and John's fingers.

John rested his head against Sherlock's thighs, pleasantly tired, soaking in the feeling of Sherlock's warm skin. He could feel Sherlock's fingers stroke tenderly over the back of his neck, hear his heavy breaths audible in the still air. John had always been a cuddler. He wished they were on a bed, rather than lying on the cold linoleum floor of a laboratory.

John recovered first, standing on slightly wobbly legs to grab some paper from a dispenser, the stuff that was used to mop up safe spillages. He cleaned himself as best he could before redressing and binned it, smirking over at Sherlock who was grumpily pulling himself to his feet, angrily shaking at his shirt.

"Here you go," said John innocently, handing over another tissue.

"This is Dolce & Gabbana, John," Sherlock growled, gingerly tissuing off the stain. He lobbed the paper in the bin, tugging his trousers up. "Thank god this was my last class today."

"It would be a bit awkward delivering a lecture with semen all over your shirt, yeah." John found it very difficult to stop grinning, but Sherlock looked honestly put out. John moved closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulling him down for an apologetic kiss. "I'm sure it'll wash out," he said lamely.

But Sherlock seemed distracted, his mind already on the next subject as he licked his lips, thoughtful. "Come to mine," he said suddenly, stroking John's sides.

"What?" said John.

"If you're not doing anything this evening, come to mine around nine." Sherlock's stare was disconcertingly focussed. "I'll text you the address, you get a taxi. We can spend all night together."

John blinked up at him, then rubbed his finger awkwardly over Sherlock's hand. "I'm not sure," he said quietly. Sherlock seemed to recognise his nervousness.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he assured.

"What," John said incredulously. "Like you'd be happy with me coming over just to do a bit of cuddling."

Sherlock shrugged, moved away to pick up his bag. "I'd like to spend time with you where you aren't so jumpy and nervous about being found out. Quite frankly, it's distracting."

John narrowed his eyes, but Sherlock seemed sincere. It was difficult to tell with him sometimes, but John trusted his word. And the prospect of time alone with Sherlock, with no danger or reminders of what it was they were doing, was tempting. He tilted his head. "Yeah, actually, that would be ... nice."

"Good," said Sherlock with an air of triumph, moving away to sort out the paperwork on the desk. He flashed John a smile. "I'll see you then."

John hurriedly gathered up his things, leaving Sherlock to settle down and do his marking. He unlocked the door and stepped out into the slightly cooler hallway, tugging his bag over his shoulder.

It was three in the afternoon now, so he had a good few hours. He'd need to get ready, a shower to clean himself up thoroughly and smell nice, brush his teeth. He'd need a change of clothes if he ended up spending the night. A walk of shame back home in clothes from the previous night wasn't something he was particularly eager to go through. But that meant he'd need an overnight bag, which would be a bit suspicious. Although he could probably fit everything in his school bag if he folded it all carefully.

Besides, his flatmates were so intent on cramming that they'd hardly notice he was away.

His phone buzzed in his pocket when he stepped outside, and he knew before checking that it was Sherlock.

 _Address is 221B Baker St.  
You can take a taxi, or walk south  
from the tube towards York St.  
SH_

John smiled, and had a little extra spring in his step as he set off for home.


	3. Chapter 3

John hefted the carefully packed laptop bag over his shoulder and double checked the door number before knocking. Sherlock's place had turned out to be a flat in central London, a very nice spot filled with the sort of buildings that John had imagined he'd be living in when he first moved away from home, before reality kicked in and shoved him into student accommodation. He wondered how much it cost to live here.

There was a shuffling noise and John stood straighter, a little self conscious, smoothing his hand through his freshly washed hair.

"Ohh, he never answers the door," came a muffled voice, and there was a click of locks and the door swung open, revealing a small older woman with fluffy hair and a bird-like disposition. She beamed at John like he was a long lost relative. "Hello dear! Sorry to keep you waiting, I think he's a bit distracted at the moment. Come in."

John blinked in confusion before his good manners kicked in. "Thank you," he said, smiling nervously as he stepped past her beady gaze into the threshold. The door slid shut behind him and John was trapped there, glancing around for an exit. "Uh, sorry, where is he?"

"Go up a floor, love," she said, pointing to the stairs. "Must dash or my dinner will boil over."

And she bustled off as quickly as she came, leaving John standing bemused by the doorway. Sherlock had obviously talked to her about him, although what about John had no clue. He might have told her to expect a student arriving for late night tutoring, or some strangely young boyfriend to show up. John sighed and tramped up the stairs. He knocked awkwardly on the door, feeling much like he did the first time he arrived at Sherlock's office.

Sherlock yanked open the door so quickly it was like he'd been waiting behind it. The pale eyes narrowed, and Sherlock cast a searching glance around before wrapping his arms around John's waist and pulling him inside. "So good to see you," he rumbled, lazily swinging the door shut behind them both.

"You too," said John, his eyes flicking momentarily down the line of Sherlock's chest. He'd changed into a purple shirt, the first few buttons undone, and the dark colour made his skin seem ethereal in contrast. Feeling a spark of trepidation, he backed off against the easy grip of Sherlock's hands, and they reluctantly slid from his side.

Sherlock's eyes were 

Perhaps it would be best to take things slow.

John dropped his bag by the wall and turned away to have a look around the flat. The word that immediately leapt to mind was _messy_. The place was cluttered up with Sherlock's possessions, littering every available surface and stacking up by the windows.

But it was personal mess. John brushed a finger down the spines of books that were a lot more varied in subject than the texts in his office. He had a collection of newspapers that dated years back, articles of interest clipped out and stored in a system that John didn't understand. A beautiful old violin was resting by one of the armchairs, a chessboard by the bookshelves. There was a skull on the mantelpiece, a real one. John touched its browline, remembering Peter's comments of the head in Sherlock's office, and turned to see Sherlock looking at him, unmoving.

"Nice flat," John offered, and Sherlock smiled, pleased.

"It's wonderfully habitable, yes." He paused, then swept over to glass doors, pushing them open to reveal a cluttered kitchen with a chemistry set laid out over the kitchen table. Some of it was borrowed from the university. John recognised the markings stuck on by the lab techs. "Wine?"

Alcohol would be nice indeed. "Go on," John said, smiling.

Sherlock stretched up to grabs some glasses from a high shelf, the delicate line of his shoulder blades flexing under the tight shirt. He snatched up a bottle of red and walked back out, pressing a glass into John's hand with a brush of his fingers.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a drinker," said John after a pause, unable to take his eyes off of his tall figure.

"That's because I'm not," Sherlock told him. He pressed the bottle to John's back, moving him to the relatively tidier table by the windows. "But, this is a special occasion."

"In what way is it special?" John asked, apprehensive.

They sat across from each other at the table. Sherlock uncorked the wine and poured a generous amount into John's glass with the deft hand of a chemist. "You're here," he said, pouring some for himself and swirling the glass. "I'm here. No-one else is here …"

And he was right, it felt good to get away from everything. They were secluded, with the curtains shut against the night. The only light came from floor lamps that cast a soft golden glow around the room, diffuse shadows panning out over eclectically patterned walls.

"Do you own this place?" John asked after a mouthful of wine.

"No," Sherlock said. "I rent. The woman who let you in is Mrs Hudson, my landlady."

"No flatmate?"

Sherlock's mouth tugged down a little at the corners, as if remembering something unpleasant.  "No-one's lasted longer than a week."

John raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock huffed something that might have been a laugh.

"I'm rather difficult to deal with for long periods of time. You wouldn't know," he said, with a pointed look. "You only see me at my best."

"Oh dear," teased John.

"What?"

John swallowed down some more wine. It was delicious, far tastier than the stuff he was used to. "I mean," he said. "If I've only seen you at your best, that doesn't bode well for you at your worst."

"Oh, you have no idea," said Sherlock, with a strange grin.

Any time spent with Sherlock passed quickly, John quite happily sipped at his wine and listened to Sherlock explaining some of the more obscure items that were in his living room. He realised a while in that, while the bottle was depleting, Sherlock had been doing much more talking than drinking.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" John asked, half joking, when Sherlock refilled his glass for the third time.

"Maybe," said Sherlock nonchalantly, his eyes glimmering in the lamplight as they flickered over John's body. John was momentarily distracted. "Should I drink some as well, so as not to arouse your suspicions?"

"Excellent idea," John assured him, and Sherlock obediently threw down the rest of his glass, smacking his lips together with a little exhale. John laughed easily. "You can't do that to stuff like this!" he exclaimed. "You have to savour it."

"Mm," said Sherlock, pouring himself some more. He glanced over at John. "Like all good things."

John felt a little hot around the collar. He coughed nervously, and pulled off his jacket. As he tugged his shirt sleeves over his wrists, he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him over the brim of his wine, and stopped moving to stare back with wide eyes.

Being the subject of Sherlock's focus had intimidated more than a few of his friends into stammering silence, but John knew now that Sherlock had different kinds of attention. The one being directed his way more and more often was similar to fascination. Sherlock looked at him like he was something strange and rare that he wanted to examine under a microscope, just to see how it worked.

It probably said a lot about the state of John's sanity, but he liked being the centre of that interest.

After talking for so long, Sherlock seemed quite happy to sit back and listen to John explain the rules of rugby. Sports wasn't something that Sherlock was particularly interested in, but his eyes didn't glaze over once as John talked about the World Cup, watching John's gestures like they were the only thing of interest in the room. John broke off his speech when he realised Sherlock hadn't spoken in ages, which was very unusual.

Sherlock was, and there was only one word for it, _observing_ him. He had a slight smile on his face when John stopped talking.

"And … you're not even listening to me, are you?" John said, amused.

"Sport is tedious," said Sherlock honestly.

"Sport is all about strategy and skill. I thought you'd love it."

"I quite enjoy fencing," said Sherlock. "But that's a little more applicable to life than the ability to kick a ball."

John frowned. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise I was boring you."

"While the subject of your endearingly enthusiastic speech did little to rouse me," Sherlock said, gesturing in the direction of John's face, "I found the crease between your eyebrows when you were explaining something quite charming to watch, even for extended periods of time. You have a remarkable number of tells."

John pressed a finger above the bridge of his nose, confused. Sherlock smiled widely at him in amusement, and slid his hand to the middle of the table.

He didn't want to make the first move. He looked calmly at John, offering without pushing, his chest rising and falling evenly with steady breathes. They both knew why John had really come here, although John knew now that he was being given a choice. The rest of the evening could pass with conversation, and Sherlock would accept that. Or …

John pressed his hand over Sherlock's, intent, and Sherlock twisted his wrist to wrap their palms together. He seemed to enjoy the size difference of their hands, although he didn't comment on it.

"I think I'm a little drunk," John mused, as Sherlock stroked his thumb. He'd always succumbed more easily to persuasion in the evenings, and the soft haze of alcohol smoothed out any remaining doubts. He loved the feel of Sherlock's dextrous fingers playing over his own.

"You're fine," said Sherlock, stepping around without letting go of John's hand.

For one moment, it looked like he was going to kiss John's knuckles, but instead he pulled John to his feet and drew him to a red armchair by the fireplace. John followed, perhaps a little clumsy in his eagerness, and when Sherlock sat he pulled John over him. John straddled Sherlock's thighs, the sides of his calves pressed between the armrests and Sherlock. He rested his hands on sloping shoulders, the purple fabric smooth under his palms, warmed by Sherlock's skin.

"You're really lovely," said John, a little breathlessly. And Sherlock was, smiling up at John with a touch of pride at the vague compliment. His pale skin stood out from shadows and dark fabric, and his eyes glinted in the lamplight. He'd look amazing by firelight, but John wasn't sure if the fireplace was even operational. Perhaps some other time. He hoped, dearly, that there would be other times.

Sherlock looked as if he was enjoying having John on his lap, his hands smoothing idly over John's sides and hips in wonderfully soothing, petting gestures. John shifted against him, and pushed Sherlock's hair off of his forehead, feeling the soft warmth of the curls in his hand. Sherlock moved, his cheekbones sharpening as he arched his neck so that John held the comfortable weight of his head in the palm of his hand, silky black strands curling against his fingers. He stared up at John with pale, ponderous eyes, and exhaled a slow breath through parted lips.

John couldn't help himself. He cradled Sherlock's magnificent head and leant down to kiss him, tasting his warmth, and a hint of wine. Sherlock huffed a breath against his cheek, pleased. When John pulled away, Sherlock moved a little with him, as though loath for them to break apart. His lips were wet from John's tongue.

"You're really, really amazing," John blurted out.

"Such eloquence," murmured Sherlock, relaxing onto the cushioned chair and resuming his absent stroking of John's sides.

"Don't make fun of me," John warned, and he kissed Sherlock again to shut him up, heady with the feel of Sherlock's tongue slick over his own.

Sherlock laughed against John's mouth. "If you kiss me every time I tease you, do you really think I'll stop?"

John thought about it. "Reverse psychology?"

"That only works on children," Sherlock scoffed.

John just smirked at him, and Sherlock got offended.

"Shut up. You're the childish one."

"No I'm not," said John, rubbing his hands down Sherlock's chest.

"You are," Sherlock retorted, and dragged John down for a far deeper kiss, his hands sliding around the seam of John's jeans. John kissed back, revelling in the sensation of a pliant body underneath him, moving with him, touching him. Sherlock's languid caresses grew keen, gripping and groping at John's body as if trying to estimate his body fat percentage by touch, or something. He probably was.

When Sherlock slid a hand under the edge of John's jeans and boxers to press flush against his skin, John tensed, confused. At a long fingered squeeze he straightened up, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock gazed up at him, mouth glistening, eyes heavy lidded.

"Undo your jeans," he said, and squeezed again to punctuate his request.

"Why?" John asked.

"So I can fit both my hands down there."

John froze, and then shifted in Sherlock's lap, unbuttoning and unzipping in clumsy haste, his legs still spread over Sherlock's. Sherlock reached around and slid his palms appreciatively over John's arse, before tightening his grip and tugging John closer in a sudden fit of yearning, grinding up into him. John's breath hitched at the intensity of want that flickered behind Sherlock's usually schooled expression, helplessly aroused.

"Can I touch you?" John asked, sliding his hands down Sherlock's front. "Please, I need to-"

Sherlock nodded swiftly, his mouth parting a little as John fumbled at his trousers, pulling him out. He hardened as John worked his hand over him, the flesh growing hot and throbbing, letting out an almost silent groan of pleasure as John shifted closer, leaning down to suck the pale skin of his neck. He felt Sherlock pull a hand out to suck on his fingers, trembling a little from John's ministrations.

"Ah, Sherlock," John gasped, as Sherlock gripped at John's arse and slid his other hand back in, and felt the brush of saliva over his skin. He jolted and moved back to stare, shocked, down at Sherlock, losing his rhythm as the pad of a wet finger pressed against his hole. Sherlock watched his face intently as he slipped first the tip, then the whole length of his finger in, soaking up John's stuttering reactions.

"Keep going," Sherlock said in a deceptively soothing tone.

John obediently started up again, staring into Sherlock's eyes like they were some sort of anchor to safety. He fidgeted as Sherlock pressed at him, and although it was only a finger and Sherlock couldn't see anything, he felt terribly exposed, invaded. Part of Sherlock was inside of him.

Suddenly, Sherlock curled his finger and pressed, and John sucked in a surprised breath of air, eyes wide at the burst of unfamiliar pleasure. Sherlock repeated the motion until John was squirming on his lap, letting out little huffing noises. He stared at Sherlock in astonishment, and Sherlock smirked in return, pulling his finger out, resting his hands on John's waist.

"As wonderful as it is having you sprawled over me like this, I am rather beginning to lose sensation in my legs."

John scrambled to his feet. "Sorry," he said quickly, and Sherlock gracefully followed, tugging his trousers back up.

"Come to my bed," he offered, a bony hand pressing over the small of John's back. "We'll be more comfortable there."

Sherlock led him up a narrow staircase to the floor above. The wood creaked under John's feet as he tried to stay calm; Sherlock's fingers were pressing over the shirt fabric at his spine, his body looming so close that John didn't have to look to feel him there behind him as they climbed each step by step.

"Guest," said Sherlock, waving vaguely towards a shut door as they reached the top, before pulling John into his own room and pinning him to the door in order to shut it, leaving them both in blackness. John melted into a blind kiss, pressed up against Sherlock's body, the ridged wood of the door hard against his back.

After a short, sweet snog, Sherlock gave one last tingling suck on his lips before stepping back, a pleased smirk revealed over his features when he switched on the lights. His room was stark and bare in contrast to the rest of the flat, although the tidiness seemed like an aftereffect rather than any sign of Sherlock being a naturally uncluttered man. He probably just never spent much time here, enough time to cause his inevitable jumble.

The air was warm, the room secluded, and John wished he felt more comfortable because it was obvious that Sherlock had done his best to make things pleasant, which was difficult for a man who had very different concepts of what pleasant surroundings actually were. There was a double bed, its head against the wall, alongside a curtained window. John swallowed nervously as Sherlock turned to tug down the sheets of the newly made bed, smoothing the corner down with finicky fingers. He looked back to John, and gestured him over.

John glanced from the hand back to Sherlock, his heart hammering loudly in his chest. He pushed himself from the door and took a few small steps forward, twining his fingers through Sherlock's.

They fit together just right.

He was at ease with this man. He trusted him. Sherlock may be demanding and petulant, but despite his numerous complaints, if John ever felt uncomfortable doing something, he'd shown over and over again that he was quite willing to stop.

Sherlock brushed a thumb over John's cheek, eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed like they were when he was concentrating on something. His fingers trailed down John's jaw, his neck, and rested over the first button of his shirt, just at the base of John's throat. John stared up at the lowered gaze that was fixed on his shirt front, waited.

"I've never seen you naked before," murmured Sherlock, in his low, rumbling voice, and he twisted his fingers to undo the button. John swallowed, his adam's apple brushing Sherlock's knuckles. "All the times we've been together, all the ways I've had you, and there's still mystery. Still skin I haven't touched with my own."

His fingers flicked down the line of buttons with ease, until the shirt hung loose around John's shoulders. With the same strange, patient curiosity he showed in all his experiments, he walked around John and slowly peeled the shirt back, dragging the fabric down John's arms, dropping it on the floor.

"You've seen this before," John said with faint amusement as Sherlock traced a finger down his spine like he was counting the vertebrae.

"Not in my bedroom," said Sherlock. "Not with time to observe and examine."

John blinked, thought. "Is that what turns you on?" he asked.

Sherlock reached around to grab John's hips, pulling him backwards. "You turn me on," he rumbled, scraping his hands up John's chest, feeling the shapes, where he was soft, where he was hard. The low voice right in John's ear would have made him tremble, if he weren't so soothed by Sherlock's carefully measured touches. God, he must have John's erogenous zones mapped out to the millimetre.

Sherlock took his time undressing John, equally considerate over each new bit of exposed flesh, spending as much time running his hands over John's thighs as he did examining the textures of his feet. It was like receiving an extremely thorough and intimate physical. John felt a little embarrassed at Sherlock's in-depth scrutiny, but he enjoyed the effect, enjoyed watching Sherlock's complete absorption in the task of cataloguing John's body.

Afterwards he folded John in his arms and laid him on his back on soft, overwashed sheets, pulling off his own clothes with rather more hurry. John insisted on unbuttoning the sinfully tight purple shirt himself, relishing each new inch of pale skin. He realised, belatedly, when Sherlock slipped in to lie beside him, that this was the first time they'd been in bed together, that this was the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock like this; in his own home, in a warm bed, naked and patient.

Sherlock had dimmed the lights until they were only lit by the golden bedside lamp glow, and then moved over John, eager to work him up again. He slipped between John's thighs and kissed him, his hands sliding down John's arms to pin his wrists by his sides. John pushed back a little, to feel the pressure that pushed him to the mattress. Sherlock just held him down harder.

"I want to touch you," John pleaded against Sherlock's searching mouth.

Sherlock pulled back, icy eyes narrowing, and then pressed his lips down John's jaw, his neck, hungrily licked at his nipples, catching one and tugging it with a slight graze of teeth. John hissed, glanced down to see the black curled head bowed as he mapped out John's skin, and let out a grateful moan when Sherlock released his wrists to instead smooth up and down John's thighs. He stroked over Sherlock's smooth shoulders, his flexed arms, and marvelled at the softness of his skin.

"I'm not used to this," he said quickly, after flinching as Sherlock's fingers trailed over his arse.

Sherlock stared up at him. "If you want to stop, you can say so."

"I know," John said firmly. "I'm just reminding you."

Sherlock tilted his head, the diffuse light softening his usually harsh features. He looked dubious, and as usual he wasn't bothering to hide it.

"Look, Sherlock," John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just so you know, I'm not at all uncomfortable with saying no. So let's keep doing this, and if I have a problem with any of it I'll say so."

Sherlock's face abruptly broke into a wide smile, as if John had just done something adorable. "Very well," he murmured, relaxing over John's body. "I suppose it's time to continue with your … intimate massage."

He had a bottle of lube and was teasing at John's entrance, slipping his finger in and out. John let out a slow exhale, relaxing against the unusual stimulation. He let out a little cry when Sherlock started vigorously rubbing at his prostate, toes curling.

"When do you want to come?" asked Sherlock, working in a second finger.

John was distracted a little by the sensation, the stretch. "I'm sorry?"

The fingers scissored in him, and John gasped. Sherlock carefully observed his face, a slight smile twitching at the edges of his lips. "Would you like to come before I fuck you? Or during? Or would you prefer I finish you off after?" He pushed more lube into John, who groaned. "Generally, you only get one orgasm."

John realised, through the haze of alcohol, and the sweet stretch against loosening muscle, that Sherlock really wanted him to look back on this night well. It might have been for selfish reasons, but John appreciated it all the same. "What's better?"

Sherlock's eyes dipped down, and he started edging in the tip of a third finger, twisting his hand, as if trying to corkscrew in. John huffed a breath, his eyes fluttering shut. "During is the most fun, but that's just a personal preference," rumbled Sherlock, his voice impossibly low. John shivered around his fingers. "I would enjoy making you come now, so you can be nice and pliant while I fuck you, free to experience the feelings without being distracted by a need to get off."

All three fingers slipped deep in, his pinky brushing the skin of John's arse as he curled all three into John's prostate.

"After can be good too," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's harsh breathing. "I could stimulate you, and when I'm done and you're begging for it, suck you off."

"Oh my god," groaned John, spreading his legs wider. He was obscenely hard, and Sherlock hadn't even touched his cock.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. I just think this is going to be really really fun."

Sherlock grinned at him, and John grinned widely back. He'd probably be hideously embarrassed right now if he wasn't rather drunk. But here and now, Sherlock looked impossibly gorgeous, glowing in the lamplight, with eyes only for John. John pulled him down, wordlessly requested another kiss, and Sherlock complied. He bent over John, thrusting shallowly with his fingers as their tongues tangled.

John pulled away first, breathing over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock stared back, his eyes glimmering. John fancied he could see himself in their pale reflection. "I want to come with you inside me."

Sherlock smirked. "You romantic."

There was nothing massively different to having Sherlock's cock in him, after having his fingers, but John's mind warred against him. It was the implications, the imagery that he'd grown up with, the realisation that after this he'd have given Sherlock everything that he had to offer. And Sherlock grew bored so quickly. He found himself wary when Sherlock moved over him.

"Relax," Sherlock ordered, and John felt him press. He gazed up at the pale body that loomed over him and felt awfully vulnerable. He wanted Sherlock desperately but he was scared of pain, of not enjoying it, of ruining everything they'd done so far.

"Go slow," John pleaded. "To start."

Sherlock paused, stared. John pressed back against him in encouragement.

"I want you," he confessed. "I want all of you. Just …"

"I won't hurt you," Sherlock promised, jaw tense. From the twitch of his too tight grip, he was forcibly holding back, his yearning almost palpable. "Just relax, John."

His eyes were downcast, the muscles in his face taut, and John realised with a frission of arousal that he was watching himself slide in. John couldn't look away from the intense concentration, the slight flutter of eyelashes under creased brows as Sherlock immersed himself in the moment of taking John for the first time. The intimate stretch was incredible, reaching far deeper than fingers. John felt like he'd been hollowed out.

"You're in me," he said stupidly, when Sherlock sank in completely with a tight gasp. His lips twitched at John's comments.

"Good. There's nothing noticeably wrong with your nervous system." But his attempt at dismissive humour was ruined by his shaking attempts at maintaining self control. John clenched around him, and Sherlock groaned. He thrust shallowly into John, then hooked John's legs up higher and rolled his hips into a few, deep strokes. John had to bite at his lip to stop himself from crying out. He failed, letting out little breathy noises as Sherlock moved into him.

"Oh god, Sherlock …"

Sherlock thrust again, soaking up John's confused reactions. Eager for more of him, John wrapped his legs higher around Sherlock's body, staring back with something like wonder as they rocked gently against the sheets. "You've never had sex with a virgin," said Sherlock suddenly, and John felt like laughing.

"No deductions in bed-" he started, before inhaling sharply in surprise as Sherlock thrust perfectly into a spot that made his legs tremble and warm pleasure spark in his abdomen.

"There we go," murmured Sherlock, his eyes darkening in lust. John swallowed, staring back in equal parts trepidation and desire. He shuddered when Sherlock did it again, harder, jerking him against the mattress.

Sherlock's next forceful thrusts were enough to put stars in his eyes, his blood rushing through his veins, and he moaned far too loudly, his head rolling back against the pillows. This new pace was fast and hard, and soon John's skin was sweaty under Sherlock's grip, the scent of sex beginning to permeate the air. He reached around to touch himself, the back of his hand brushing Sherlock's stomach as he pulled desperately at his cock, muttering things under his breath that he'd probably later regret, like how gorgeous Sherlock was, how he'd do anything for him.

"Sherlock!" he gasped out, moving his hips clumsily but desperately against Sherlock's thick cock as it pistoned into him. He felt so open. He could hear the slick slide of lube with each push. "Oh god, yes. Yes."

"Look at you," Sherlock muttered, his voice deep, rough and a little hypnotised. "Tell me everything. Tell me how it feels."

 _God, that voice._ "It's amazing," John panted, overwhelmed. "I can feel you, we're connected." Sherlock thrust sharply, perfectly, and John nearly spilt over his hand. He was so close, and the heated pressure was unbearable. "God, Sherlock, harder! _Please_."

When John came, it was with a throaty shout, his come spurting out as though it was being fucked out of him by Sherlock's increasingly rough thrusts. It stuck to his stomach as Sherlock practically folded him in half, opening his limp body up to finish himself off. John stared up at him through blurred eyes, admiring the sheen of sweat over his skin, the pornographic expression over his fine features.

Fuck, but Sherlock looked incredible when he lost control.

"Ahh, _John_ ," Sherlock gasped out as if in surprise, abruptly pulling out and spilling over John's belly so their come mixed together. His arms gave out and he slumped to the side, boneless, before pulling John's back against him and folding over him.

His breath was heavy in John's ear, triumphant, like he'd been racing for miles just to catch him and had just now succeeded. One of his large hands smoothed possessively down John's flank, so John reached back and caught it, entwining their fingers. Sherlock huffed a laugh against his neck, but John didn't care. He felt awfully sentimental, in that moment.

Sherlock muttered something that he didn't quite catch. John tilted his head.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock sighed warmly over his skin. "I'm probably taking up far too much of your revision time," he murmured.

John blinked, his insides curling in discomfort. "Pardon?"

"Your friends, home studying, you here with me." Sherlock thoughtfully played his fingers over John's. "I suppose I could always tutor you." He trailed his hands over John's chest while John buried the side of his face in the pillow, incredibly disturbed but unable to pinpoint why.

But of course. In all the time of their encounter, John had forgotten that they were teacher and student. Sherlock had ruined his comforting illusion, had inadvertently re-established the nature of their secretive, unbalanced relationship. John swallowed thickly, his eyes unnervingly wet, and pushed away from Sherlock to sit up on the edge of the bed. He heard Sherlock shift behind him.

"John?"

That voice. He'd listened to it earlier, revising from the lecture recordings in the library. John resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. "Call me a cab," he said, not looking over.

"What?" Sherlock sounded confused, angrily so. "Why?" he demanded.

"Why did you have to bring that up?" John said, unsteadily rising and picking up his discarded jeans. He pulled out his phone, seeing Sherlock lie unmoving on the bed out of the corner of his eye. He felt completely miserable.

"We can't exactly ignore the nature of our relationship, John," said Sherlock, with his usual attempt at being reasonable.

John dialled the nearest cab firm. "Hey, can I get a taxi to 221B Baker Street? To St John's Street. John Watson. Thank you."

"John," said Sherlock in a low voice, indignant. John cleaned himself and then started tugging on his clothes with shaking hands.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not getting off on the whole teacher fucking student thing."

Sherlock was completely unconcerned with his own nakedness, watching John dress with carefully considered calm, but his eyes were pale with fury. "Neither am I," he said slowly. "But that's just _details_ , John."

John shook his head, tucking in his shirt. "I came here because I thought, just this once, it could be a time for us away from all that, you know?" He shook his head, blinked up at the ceiling. "But you had to bring it up just then. Just when I was feeling …"

_Vulnerable._

"I don't see the point in lying to ourselves," said Sherlock dismissively. "We are who we are."

"I'm lots of things, but I don't go on about them after having sex with someone for the first time," John retorted.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're very angry."

"Oh, well done," said John, throwing his hands up in the air. "Brilliant deduction."

Sherlock looked honestly offended. He sniffed, raised his chin, and deflected all his insecurities right back at John with a simple haughty glare. "So is this how it's going to be? I disagree with you, so you run off in a tantrum. How adult."

"It's not a tantrum!" John yelled, before realising that didn't help his point. He ruffled at his hair and resisted the urge to pace. "You just don't see-"

"So, you want me to pretend that I'm not your teacher," Sherlock interrupted with a furious glower. "Is there anything else you'd like me to change about myself? Because, of course, this is all about you."

John paused. "Don't twist my words."

"Don't think that just because you've let me fuck you means you get to order me around," Sherlock snarled.

John wanted to scream at him. "You are the most … _impossible_ person I have ever had the misfortune of meeting!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to spit something back, when they both heard a loud knocking on the door. John flinched upright, automatically moving to answer. Sherlock seemed to curl into himself. "Fine," he spat. "Go. I don't care."

John left him to stew in his own sulking. He dashed down into the living room to grab his bag and jacket before rushing down the stairs, wiping angrily at his eyes. He'd probably woken Mrs Hudson with all his stomping.

The cabbie stood at the doorstep, apologetic. "I honked the horn, but-"

"It's okay," said John. The man looked him over.

"You're John Watson? Ordered the cab?"

John opened his mouth. "Yeah, I-"

There was a loud scrape of noise from upstairs, and they both jumped. The violin, being played like a torture instrument. The cabbie peered past him, then back to John, his polite distance falling when he noticed John's red-rimmed eyes. John stared out into the middle distance, thinking.

He and Sherlock had been on different wavelengths with that argument. John had wanted to forget about the more forbidden aspects of their relationship, but that's not what had gotten Sherlock riled. He'd been arguing against John's wanting to reject aknowledging his career, even though John didn't want that at all. He just wanted Sherlock to work on his brain-to-mouth filter a bit.

Sherlock's violin playing turned vicious, but the anger hid something plaintive. It was sadness, acting out as anger to hide its own weakness.

The cabbie coughed uncomfortably. "Mr Watson?"

John's gaze snapped back to him. He blinked, thought, and came to a decision as the little man peered at him. "Look," he said, pressing some money into the cabbie's hand. "I made a mistake with the taxi. I won't be needing one. Sorry for calling you out here so late."

"That's okay, Mr Watson." The man pocketed the money. "Have a good night."

John shut the door behind him, and leant against it, listening to the taxi pull away. He shut his eyes, shook his head, then quietly moved back upstairs.

Sherlock was in the living room with his back to the door, dressed in a blue silk dressing gown and pulling on the strings of his violin with something John could only describe as vehemence. He heard Sherlock grunt in frustration, and then the man abruptly chucked the beautiful violin to the side. His whole body appeared to collapse into itself, and he started to rub his thumb over the nicotine patch at the crook of his elbow.

John chose that moment to knock quietly on the doorframe.

Sherlock startled, whipping around with a distraught expression that was quickly schooled into haughtiness. "Why are you still here?" he croaked. "Scared I'll fail you for running off on me?"

John shook his head, hesitant to step into the living room. "Because I care about you, and I think what we have could work if we talk about this."

Sherlock stared at him, kept him waiting in silence until the tension was tortuous. "I'm not going to change myself for you," he said eventually.

"I wasn't asking that," said John, steeling himself and stepping in. Sherlock didn't react. "I'm sorry if that's what it sounded like."

"You don't like it when I bring up things that are true." Sherlock slumped down onto his armchair, as if exhausted. "I can't say I understand that myself."

John put his bag down and took a few steps forward. "I want our relationship to be one between equals."

"Then you've picked the wrong man," Sherlock retorted, but it was an angry reflex. He didn't mean it.

John sat across from him on the red armchair, cautiously, like he was scared Sherlock would yell at him not to. But Sherlock just stared at him with that pale glare, observing.

"Look," said John in a reasonable tone, trying to explain his convoluted emotions simply. "There's our work life, and there's our personal life. They're separate."

"You are proposing some sort of alter ego scenario," Sherlock commented, doubtful.

John leant forward, resting his hands on his knees. "In our work, you're a teacher, I'm a student. We aren't in a relationship. You say stuff and I learn it. But here, it's different." He paused, trying to see if the words were soaking in. Sherlock's expression was indecipherable. "It's just us, just two people who've found each other."

"We met through work," Sherlock pointed out. "You went to dinner with me so I'd fiddle your grades around."

"That dinner was ages ago, Sherlock, we've moved past that I think."

"We've had various forms of sex on my office desk," Sherlock continued, like John hadn't said anything.

"You're missing the point!" exclaimed John, frightened and exasperated.

Sherlock's icy façade cracked a little at John's outburst. He shifted in his seat. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said quietly. "But I can't help it if our two 'separate lives' turn out, on occasion, not to be separate."

"Just don't randomly bring it up," John pleaded. "Especially after my first time ... you know."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I suppose you were feeling rather emotionally delicate."

"Yeah," John admitted. He hadn't expected to be affected so much.

Sherlock's face smoothed back in understanding, and he got to his feet in a swish of blue silk, tugging John to his feet and hugging him. John realised that he'd been shaking; he'd been so terrified of Sherlock chucking him out.

Sherlock buried his face in John's hair and inhaled deeply. "I'm sorry."

Maybe he meant it, as well.

Sherlock enveloped him, his dressing gown slipping a bit off his shoulders. John stroked the revealed skin, his thumb resting in the hollow at the base of Sherlock's throat. He could feel Sherlock's pulse racing. Sherlock pulled him forward again, tighter, shushing John when he tried to pull away, so John sighed, gave in, and relaxed into it.

He remembered Sherlock's look of surprise when he saw that John hadn't left. Perhaps he was used to people walking out on him. Perhaps he jumped to the conclusion that John wanted him to change, only because it had been asked of him so many times before.

"I'm not going anywhere," said John hesitantly, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's skin. "And I like you the way you are, even if you get a bit infuriating at times. I don't mind."

Strong fingers pulled his chin up, and Sherlock forced John into a kiss, sucking at his mouth, and then his tongue, like he was trying to consume him. John sighed into it, his lips already swollen and sensitive from earlier.

"Let me try again," said Sherlock, a serious look in his eye.

They didn't even bother going back upstairs.

Sherlock practically dragged John's clothes off, pushing him onto a three-seater couch at the side of the room. His dressing gown flapped over John's sides as Sherlock pulled him onto his knees, pressing into John with a tight gasp. He slipped in far too easily, and John's eyes flickered shut at the mix of pain and pleasure.

"Still wet," Sherlock murmured.

John yelped as he started thrusting, gripping at the armrest. This fuck was desperate, sweaty skin and choked off groans as they clambered awkwardly over the couch, too wrapped up in need to think about practicalities. The couch scraped on the floor as John clung on for his life at the armrest, pushing back, wanting more of Sherlock. He hoped the thing wouldn't break under Sherlock's frantic pounding.

They curled together after they were done, spooning along the couch. Sherlock dragged his dressing gown over both of them, tugging John close so they were both wrapped in blue silk. John thought about complaining and saying he wanted to sleep upstairs in bed, but he was far too content to do more than breathe.

"You're amazing," he said eventually, resting his hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock entwined their fingers in reply, and pressed a chaste kiss to John's hair.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the brush of cool air over his skin that woke John up, shivering over his spine and making his flesh come up in goosebumps. He buried into the warmth in front of him, the couch cushions squeaking underneath as he moved, setting off a headache that clawed over his forehead. He groaned in pain, rolling appreciatively against the warmth when arms encircled him, drew him away from the cold.

"Morning," rumbled Sherlock, his low voice soothing through John, causing him to shudder. He was cuddling on the couch with Sherlock. Clearly, they hadn't bothered moving after John's post-coital nap.

"Oh god," mumbled John, stretching out his cramped joints and almost sliding off the couch. He scrabbled and caught himself on the edge just in time, and clambered back on, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Why did we sleep here again?"

Sherlock smirked at him. His pale skin was slightly shiny, and his dark hair curled up and around his head like a birdnest. It was rumpled on the side he'd been sleeping on. John thought he looked gorgeously dishevelled. "I believe the main reason was contentment, followed shortly by laziness."

"I think my neck's seized up," John complained, massaging his fingers into the painful muscles, and Sherlock watched him contentedly.

He glanced down at both of their bodies and abruptly realised that while Sherlock was happily wrapped up in his blue silk dressing gown, John was completely naked. In the clear morning light that leaked in from the partly opened curtains, his nudity seemed a lot more obscene.

"Jesus," he muttered, twisting self-consciously and nearly falling off the couch again in the process. Sherlock reacted with lightening speed, catching hold of John's wrists and yanking him back up. "Hey!" John yelped, as Sherlock rolled them both over so that he lay heavily over John, pinning him down, his pale limbs slipping in between John's.

"Don't cover yourself up," Sherlock purred, and his grip turned into a caress, pressing his fingers down the lines of blue veins in John's wrists. It was clear what he wanted.

John shook his head, turning to the side to avoid a kiss. "I'm really not in the mood, Sherlock," he insisted. "I have a headache and I look gross. And I feel gross."

He felt Sherlock freeze against his skin, and looked up to see him sit back, irritably pulling his dressing gown firmly around himself, huffing in frustration. John groaned again, and ran his hands through his slightly sticky hair. He could feel old sweat drying on his skin, and he smelt unmistakably of sex.

"Need a shower," he grunted, pulling himself awkwardly to his feet, stumbling on the cold flooring. Sherlock stared at him with renewed interest.

"May I join you?" he asked.

"Okay," said John, smiling.

"Excellent," said Sherlock, his lips twitching at the edges. "Follow me."

John grabbed his bag of fresh clothes from the floor and scampered a little nervously after Sherlock to the bathroom. A frosted window let in morning light to the rather small room, and John laid out his fresh clothes out of the way over a rail as Sherlock fiddled with the water.

Sherlock had a bath and shower combination, and had to stick down a no-slip mat in the tub so they wouldn't fall over. His pale face narrowed in concentration as he tested the water for temperature until, apparently satisfied, he dropped his gown to the floor and stepped in. He wriggled his fingers at John, gesturing him over.

John jumped in after him, getting his face in the spray. He rubbed at his oily skin as Sherlock yanked at the shower curtain, swinging it around them and tucking it inside. "Feels good," John murmured as the water scattered across his face. He felt a little brain-numbed.

"Mm," said Sherlock noncommittally, and John heard the click of a plastic cap and smelt a burst of minimal, soapy scent. He heard Sherlock start to scrub himself up, the soapy slide of fingers over a hard body. He didn't look. He was far too happy just soaking up the water.

Eventually he felt the skim of Sherlock's skin against his own, the press of hands at John's body, gently but firmly manoeuvring him out of the way. John made a little moaning noise, blinking the water out of his eyes and staring up at Sherlock, who was washing the suds off of his body. The muscles in his arms flexed as he reached and rubbed, and John was entranced for a moment. Weirdly enough, he was still wearing the nicotine patch.

Sherlock shook his head under the water and rubbed his fingers down his face. He glanced over at John, who was still stupidly staring, and smiled. "Come here," he said fondly, squirting more shower gel onto his hands.

"Huh?" John said, and Sherlock staring rubbing the soap over his skin. He scraped his hands up John's back, up the nape of his neck in a way that had John shuddering, scrubbing over his shoulders and chest. "I can do it myself," John remarked half heartedly, as Sherlock soaped up his hips and sides, spreading lather over his skin.

"I know," said Sherlock. "I just want to do it."

"It smells nice," said John a little vaguely, and he gasped as Sherlock gripped hold of his arse and dragged him closer.

"Good," murmured Sherlock, so quietly that John could barely hear him over the water spray. "It was expensive."

"And now I smell expensive," John mused.

"Mmm," said Sherlock. His movements had changed, less scrubbing and more caressing, lazily smoothing over John's skin.

"I don't think what you're doing is the most efficient way to make bubbles," John said, as Sherlock groped his way down John's body.

"Really?" said Sherlock, raising his eyebrows as if in surprise.

John sighed. "Could I borrow your shampoo?"

"Let me," Sherlock insisted, holding John in place with a controlling hand at his shoulder as he scrabbled for another bottle. John winced as Sherlock squirted the gel over his hair and started massaging it in. "Good," Sherlock murmured. "Keep your eyes shut."

He rubbed his hands over John's scalp, massaging through John's hair and scooping up the lather. His strong fingers felt incredible, manipulating over John's skull, pressing and massaging until John was weak at the knees, all but held up by Sherlock's hands.

"Look at you," he heard Sherlock whisper, and then he was pulled forward. The water hit his face, washing the suds out of his hair. Sherlock cupped his hands around John's head, and when John squinted his eyes open, he moved in and kissed him.

 _Oh god,_ thought John, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's slender waist and kissing back furiously. The water sprayed sensuously down their backs, steam rising from the hot water, and John's mind flooded with the sort of things they could do in here. "Sherlock," he gasped out, as Sherlock started mouthing over his jaw and down his throat, hungrily, like he was some sort of vampire. "Oh, yes …"

A sharp ringtone broke the mood, and John nearly slipped in fear at the sudden noise.

"Your phone," Sherlock said slowly, holding John steady.

"Ah, fuck," muttered John, tugging open the shower curtain. "I've got to get that."

He scrambled out of the bath, careful not to splash water everywhere, and dried his hands on a nearby towel. Dropping to his knees, he rooted through his bag until he found his phone. It was Sarah. He quickly answered.

"Hey."

Sarah let out an audible sigh of relief. "Hey babe. Where are you? You weren't home last night."

John winced. So they _had_ noticed that he wasn't in his room studying. John had planned to roll in later and say he'd spent the morning at the library, but it seemed like that excuse wasn't going to work. "No worries," he said. "I'm alright. I'm staying at a friend's."

"Ohh, I see," said Sarah with a laugh, her voice turning teasing. "When do I get to meet her, John?"

"When I'm good and ready," John replied amiably.

"Alright! Well, get back quick. Mike, Molly and I are going over some past papers, and you're the best at Biochem, so …"

John had gotten very good after Sherlock's insistent tuition. "Yeah, sure," he said, manoeuvring himself so that he dripped onto the towelling mat instead of the tiles. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Okay!" said Sarah. "See you."

She rung off, and John dropped his phone back into the bag, smoothing his hands through his wet hair in frustration. He didn't want to go.

"Come back here," said Sherlock from the tub, and John turned to look at him, taking in the pale, glistening skin, his slender form surrounded by faint mist.

"Oh, don't do this to me," he muttered, getting to his feet and grabbing a clean towel. "I need to revise, or I'll fail."

"I guarantee you an A if you step back into this shower with me," Sherlock said enticingly in his low tones.

"I need to help my flatmates too," John reminded him, towelling his hair, and then setting it to the side. "And that's not funny!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine," he said shortly, shutting off the water and stepping out after John. He briefly towelled himself dry, before slinging the towel around his waist and stalking off, still dripping water from his dark hair.

John struggled ungracefully into his clean clothes and followed, picking up his scattered possessions as he went. He remembered last night, how furiously Sherlock had stripped him in the heat of passion. Perhaps that was the reason he found his shirt covering one of the lamps, and his underwear crumpled next to the skull.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, looming over the kettle as it boiled and bubbled, his long white legs sticking out from under the towel and catching John's eye. There was a trickle of water sliding down one of his calves. He turned around when John started folding his dirty clothes into his laptop bag, his hair already curling as it dried.

"I've called you a cab," he said.

"Great," John huffed, zipping the bag shut. "Thanks."

Sherlock reached and grabbed some mugs from a cupboard, the muscles in his back flexing. John sighed and pointedly kept his gaze away from Sherlock, perching awkwardly at the kitchen table and trying not to gawp. He had to be careful where he put his arms on the table, wary of damaging any equipment.

"Coffee or tea?" asked Sherlock, musing over a packet of instant and some teabags, dark eyebrows drawn together.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," said John politely. Sherlock didn't ask how he'd like it. He watched Sherlock make it with all the dextrous skill of a chemist, and soon a mug was plonked down in front of him, spilling a little at the sides. John neatly took it, cupping it in his hands and taking a sip, smiling happily at how delicious it was. Sherlock smirked, and pulled out the chair next to him with a mug of black, sugary coffee. They sat there, sipping in silence, peaceful in each others company.

"It was really good to see you here," John said eventually, sitting a little straighter in his chair. Sherlock fixed him with a pale stare, thinking.

"Mm. Yes," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "Quite different."

John glanced down, embarrassed. "I'm sorry about …" _Running out on you. Yelling at you._ "… you know."

Sherlock's impassive mask slipped, slightly. "It's fine," he said, waving a hand. "Sometimes I forget how young you are. How inexperienced you are with these sorts of relationships."

John frowned. "I'm not inexperienced."

"Oh, you've had your dalliance with girls," said Sherlock dismissively. "But something like this, well, it's obvious you don't know what you're doing."

John took a careful sip of tea, mulling over Sherlock's words. "You like it, don't you?" he said suddenly. "Being my first."

Sherlock glanced to the side and grinned widely. "I do. Very much so."

John wriggled around so that he was facing Sherlock, and leant a little closer. "Is it like a teaching thing?" he asked, curious. "You like showing me the ropes?"

Sherlock shook his head and placed his coffee cup on the table by the compound microscope. "No. It's more to do with pride." At John's confused look, he continued. "I like the idea that I'm the only person who'd had you that way."

"See, I don't get that," said John honestly.

Sherlock shrugged. "You don't have to. I can't really explain what turns me on, I just know if it does or doesn't."

John shifted uncomfortably, and Sherlock placed a hand on his thigh.

"Don't fret, John. Your lack of experience with men wasn't the only reason I grew interested in you. I'd still like to see you."

They sat up straight when someone knocked on the door.

"Taxi," said John, getting to his feet, and Sherlock stood with him, blinking down at him with his strange eyes.

John realised he was going to miss this place, where they could touch and be together without any intrusion from the outside world. Sherlock seemed to be thinking along the same sort of lines, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards like he was about to go off for a sulk. John pulled him down for a chaste kiss, and then hugged him, inhaling the scent of his freshly washed skin. His curling, damp hair brushed over John's forearms.

"Thanks for inviting me over," he said, pulling back.

"It was a pleasure," Sherlock replied. "In all meanings of the word." He gave John a smile, warm and real, and John felt something tighten uncomfortably in his chest as he stared back. He realised, in that moment, that he could fall in love with Sherlock Holmes.

With a final hug and kiss, he left Sherlock by the sinks, washing their mugs, and dashed down to the front door to his waiting taxi.

 

 

***

 

 

He got the taxi to drop him a little down the street, so he could walk the rest of the way back without having to explain why he wasted his money when he could have gotten the tube. He hadn't wasted anything, of course. Sherlock had an account with the taxi company and when John started fishing around in his wallet, the driver revealed that he'd already been paid.

When he reached his house, he was greeted with the sight of Molly kissing a dark haired boy on the doorstep. John waited for as long as possible before realising that they weren't going to be stopping any time soon, and coughed loudly.

"Oh, John!" Molly exclaimed, darting backwards. "Umm, sorry."

John shrugged. "It's okay," he grinned, amused.

Molly wiped her hand over her mouth, blushing furiously. "This is Jim," she said quickly. "The guy I was telling you about."

John politely looked over, and the boy turned to see him, smiling shyly. He was about John's height, perhaps an inch taller, and rather scrawny. Molly looked at him like he was some sort of god, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she shifted by his side. Then again, she had always been more attracted to intelligence than looks.

"Hey Jim," said John, extending his hand. "I'm John."

"Hi," said Jim, his soft doe-like eyes blinking. He seemed nice enough. John was happy for Molly, who never really had much luck with guys.

Jim turned back to Molly. "I better be off, Moll," he said quietly. "I'll call you, yeah?"

"Yeah! Seeya," said Molly, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically. Then she dashed back inside. John moved to follow.

"Nice to meet you, John," said Jim, and John turned to wave him goodbye.

"Nice … " He froze.

Jim was smiling at him, but there was something off about it. His narrow nostrils flared as though he could smell John from the bottom of the steps, and his smile showed a few too many teeth to be friendly. John was suddenly struck with the impression that Jim knew perfectly well what he'd being doing last night. His doe eyes now seemed too large and glinted with intelligence, pitch black in his white face.

"Nice to meet you too," John stuttered out eventually, remembering Molly talk about Jim's strange obsession with Sherlock.

"Maybe I'll see you around," said Jim, rolling his slim shoulders. "Look after yourself." John stood stock still, watching Jim's shy little amble down the streets, his shoulders hunched. He heard Molly reappear from the house. She was talking.

"… and he was a complete gentleman," she gabbled. "And so clever! I really think he's a keeper."

John opened and shut his mouth a few times, eyes wide. "Um. Yeah." He scratched his head and meekly followed Molly back inside. "Well done. He seems … nice."

"He's lovely!" said Molly, with an excited giggle. "I'm so lucky." She glanced over at John, practically radiating happiness, and John smiled half-heartedly back, wishing he could ignore the deep sense of trepidation that was settling into his stomach.

 

 

***

 

  
"Come in," came Sherlock's authoritative voice, and John cautiously opened the door.

Sherlock sat at his desk, slightly shrouded in shadow. There were no lights on, and the blind over his window was pulled down, leaving only a thin rectangle of light that arrowed over the floor in a diagonal line. John neatly shut the door behind him, feeling a little like he had walked into a closet. He twisted the lock shut, and it slid into place with a click.

Sherlock stood from his seat in a fluid movement, pacing around his desk and looming down on John like something stalking its prey. John stood stock still, his heart hammering in his chest, and when Sherlock grabbed him and dragged him close like he owned him, John didn't resist.

"I've waited," Sherlock growled, "for _days_."

John kissed him briefly. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly, pressing his forehead up to Sherlock's, watching his pale eyes flare up. "I didn't want it to be suspicious -"

He was cut off by Sherlock crushing their lips together, a strong hand at the back of his head controlling his movements. Sherlock nipped at his lower lip, a little harder than was necessary, and at John's surprised gasp he licked slickly into John's mouth, eager to consume him.

"Oh god," John gulped, turning his head to the side, but Sherlock just tightened his grip in John's hair and pulled him back in.

"You come to my lectures," he muttered between kisses, breath hot over John's lips. "You sit there and watch me and listen to me with your stupid -" he broke off to suck at John's mouth, "- _gorgeous_ little face just blinking up at me, after what I've done to you -" his fingers dug into John's waist, his hand tightened in John's hair, "- after what I've seen of you, and you expect me to be patient?"

"I'm here," John said stupidly, wrapping his arms over Sherlock's shoulders. "I'm here, Sherlock."

They made up for lost time, breathlessly kissing each other in the shadows, hands searching and feeling and touching.

It had only been a few days since the night he spent at Sherlock's flat, but they'd grown so close so quickly in that time that it had been difficult the next Monday to walk into Sherlock's early morning lecture and not react. John and his flatmates sat near the back. They'd obediently taken notes while John rested his chin in his hands and watched Sherlock's dark-clad figure pace in front of the theatre, gesturing with pale hands that John had felt on his skin, speaking with the same low, commanding voice that could make John tremble.

He'd watched Sherlock from a distance, unable to spare the time to see him until now. He'd been as ridiculously eager as a love-struck teenager, walking swiftly past unknowing staff and students to the elevator, bouncing on the balls of his feet as it slowly made its way to the fourth floor. Sherlock, it seemed, had been waiting with equal impatience.

"Distance must be some sort of emotional amplifier," Sherlock muttered under his breath, as John drew him to his desk chair. He wordlessly lowered his tall figure into it with a creak of material, sitting back so John could clamber over his slim thighs. The chair eased back as John tilted Sherlock's head up, kissing at his face, his cheekbones, his soft lips. Sherlock practically purred, his eyes flickering shut as John kissed him deeper, tasted his tongue.

When John pulled back, Sherlock's eyes slowly slid open. They were strikingly pale in the shadows, and fixed on John in a way that made him catch his breath.

In a movement of confidence that would have been unthinkable to the John Watson of just a few months ago, John slipped from the chair and went to his knees, carefully positioned between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's penetrating gaze followed him, his face partly in shade but still obviously aroused. His expression was tense, his swollen mouth slightly open as he breathed loudly, staring down at John and waiting for him to move. His hands clenched and unclenched on the armrests.

Eager to savour this odd form of control, John drifted his hands up Sherlock's thighs, past where his cock was starting to strain at the material, to drift up his white shirt. He carefully pulled the material out of Sherlock's trousers and slid his fingers up, tracing over warm, bare skin, then back down to Sherlock's hips.

"Undo your trousers," he said clearly, and Sherlock gave him an amused smirk, but he did as he was told.

John carefully pulled him out. Sherlock's cock was hot and full in his hands, although not completely erect. John cautiously licked at the tip, glancing up for approval and seeing it in Sherlock's enraptured stare. He licked up the shaft, over the head, his tongue lingering delicately over the frenulum in a way that left Sherlock's grip on the armrests white-knuckled, until Sherlock was hard, the skin coated with a thin sheen of saliva.

"John," said Sherlock abruptly, his voice a threatening to break. He looked ragged.

John mouthed gingerly over the tip, taking in the head, but he backed away in shock as Sherlock reflexively thrust forward. He would have smacked his head into the desk if it weren't for Sherlock's quick reaction, cupping the back of John's head and pulling him away. John blinked up in surprise, wide eyed.

"John, please," Sherlock begged, urging him forwards.

He was straining in frustration, wildly desperate for John's touch, and John succumbed. He looked up at Sherlock as he sucked the head into his mouth, watching him wince as if in pain. His thighs trembled by John's sides, and when John rested his hands on the taut muscle he could feel the tension arching up Sherlock's body.

John took in as much as he felt comfortable, and then sucked, the feel of Sherlock's cock heavy and strong against his tongue. Sherlock groaned above him in his sinfully low voice, spilling out encouragements as John lavished attention on him, stroking over John's hair and occasionally fisting his fingers into it. His steely self-control was almost like a challenge. John had always enjoyed giving, and slowly tortuously winding Sherlock up towards greater pleasure was actually quite a turn on.

Sherlock's hips trembled, jerking a little into John's mouth and so John sucked harder, bobbing his head and taking Sherlock deeper bit by bit. Sherlock groaned, pressing at his shoulders.

"No," he choked out, and John pulled off immediately, confused.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Not like this," Sherlock growled, and he stood, looming over John as he reached out and swept all the clutter on his desk to the side. Then he hefted John up, dropping him on his back over the newly cleared desk. John felt a little rattled.

"Sherlock, what are you -- mmph!"

Sherlock stood between John's legs and dropped over him, a devious smirk over his face that was barely visible before he descended to devour John's mouth. John made a little noise of protestation as Sherlock smoothed his hands up John's arms, drawing his wrists together and pinning them above his head with one large hand in a grip that was painfully strong. His free hand trailed down John's side, the heat of his skin still able to be felt through shirt fabric. Their tongues slicked together with obscene noises, slick and hot.

God, he could probably taste himself in John's mouth.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled away. He reached to flick on his desk lamp, turning back and raking his eyes over John's body. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock clamped a sinewy hand over it, and leant in close.

"Shuuush," he hushed, nuzzling over John's cheek. John watched him with wide eyes, completely still. "You've had your fun, now let me have mine."

He pushed John's head back with the hand at his mouth, and wetly kissed over John's jawline, down the sensitive side of his throat, to inhale loudly at the hollow at the base of his neck. John breathed with controlled stillness as Sherlock started suckling at the side of his throat with enough pressure to leave a mark. A mark that would be visible over his shirt collar. John wriggled in fear, pressing against Sherlock's hold and letting out muffled objection, but Sherlock just laughed against his skin.

"Look at that," he murmured, leaning back to admire his handiwork.

"You're such a fucking teenager," John growled as soon as Sherlock removed his hand, but he was quickly cut off by the possessive press of lips. "Seriously, how can I leave your office looking like this?"

"Pull your collar up," Sherlock said unhelpfully, undoing the first few of John's shirt buttons with hasty fingers, breathing over the exposed skin.

"Do you not care about your job or something?" John demanded, but he let out a shaky breath when Sherlock's free hand pressed over his chest, dragging the fabric over sensitive skin.

"I care," Sherlock murmured. "I should care. But I feel the strangest urge to mark you that overpowers my sensibilities."

John shuddered and turned his head to the side, shutting his eyes as Sherlock felt the shape of him. He gasped as Sherlock tweaked one of his nipples through his shirt, very gently, but the sweet sensation had him shiver.

"You're so sensitive," said Sherlock with a slight hint of awe. "Look at me."

John obeyed, and the moment his head turned back, Sherlock's lips were on him again. John kissed nervously back, then more passionately, keeping hold of Sherlock's lower lip with his teeth when he tried to move away. Sherlock bit back in return, and they spent the next few minutes doing an odd biting kiss that quickly bruised both their lips.

"You're weird," John said with a laugh.

"Good weird or bad weird?" Sherlock asked, letting go of John's wrists to go searching through the clutter at the side of his desk. John watched his profile with something like admiration.

"Brilliant weird," he said, feeling a burst of happiness at Sherlock's quickly hidden smile. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock let out a happy exclamation and waved a tub of Vaseline in John's direction.

"You keep that on your desk!?" John exclaimed, sitting up. It was as if Sherlock was deliberately tempting fate.

"I use it to fix squeaky joints," said Sherlock, dropping it onto the desk by John's side. John watched in bewilderment as Sherlock stepped back between his legs, pressing him back down and stroking his hands up John's thighs. Surely he wasn't thinking …

"What?" John demanded, when Sherlock made a humming noise, as if in contemplation.

"I'm considering two different scenarios," Sherlock murmured, in his deep rumble that somehow vibrated all the way through John. He pressed his hand to John's belly, fingers spread, and dragged it down to his abdomen. "Should I have you on your back, or your stomach?"

John stared blankly. Surely he wasn't being serious. Here, in Sherlock's office? In John's mind it was like a cliché from a porn film, a professor seducing a student and fucking them over a desk, complete with scattered exams that had been swept to the side. But Sherlock seemed perfectly serious, his eyes on John's, his mouth wide in a daring smirk. His fingers squeezed possessively over John's body, a meaningful gesture.

"Yes," said Sherlock eventually, narrowing his eyes. "I think I'll have you face down." He stood straight, lifting John with him. John had just regained his footing when Sherlock took him by the shoulders and spun him around, pressing him over the desk with a commanding hand at his back, keeping him pushed against the hard wood.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, wriggling back, but Sherlock hushed him.

When he looked up to could see the door he came in, the stacks of files and paperwork in the shelves up the wall. Right in front of him was the chair he sat in when he was having his lessons. John fixed his eyes on it as Sherlock moved close behind him, undoing John's jeans and pulling them down very slowly, relishing the moment. John shivered as he felt the air brush over his skin, Sherlock's heated cock rest against his arse, and his eyes fluttered shut.

"Sherlock," he murmured again, not knowing what else to say. He wanted this, he wanted it a lot, but he felt he was being a little hypocritical. Really, there couldn't be a worse place for them to have sex. He was in his professor's office. For god's sake, he could recognise some of his fellow student's names on the marking sheets at the side of Sherlock's desk.

Sherlock smoothed a hand up the small of John's back, over bare skin, pushing his shirt up a little. He made gentle crooning noises like someone would to calm a pet. John wanted to be indignant, but Sherlock's technique worked, and he rested his curled hands on the desk feeling strangely soothed. He heard the Vaseline jar twist open, and Sherlock scooped some out. He pressed a finger into John, and John gasped, still unused to the sensation.

"Remember, John," Sherlock soothed. "Relax."

"I'm trying," John said quickly.

Sherlock bent closer, pressing a tingling kiss behind John's ear. John heard him inhale the scent of his hair. "It's me," he said. "Trust me."

John clutched at the edge of the desk. "I trust you, Sherlock," he said in a tight voice, gulping down air as Sherlock worked in a third finger, gently twisting them deeper.

"You're so tight," Sherlock hissed. John wriggled uncomfortably, trying to get Sherlock to touch his sensitive spot.

"Sherlock," he huffed. "Sherlock, please -" He cut off in a satisfied groan as Sherlock rubbed over his prostate, causing pleasure to pool in his abdomen. His skin started to heat up, prickling over his body, and he pushed back at Sherlock's controlling hand pinning him down when the fingers were removed.

"Please," he repeated desperately, dignity long since forgotten.

Sherlock smirked.

He felt Sherlock against his hole, hot and hard. John scrabbled needily at the desk as Sherlock pushed in, forcing himself to still as the fullness slowly, deliciously, stretched him open.

"Oh god, oh god," he gabbled, pressing his forehead to the wood.

"That's it," Sherlock said throatily, sliding in completely until his hips pressed against John's arse. "Oh, _yes_ , John." He thrust shallowly, and John cried out at the deep sensation. "Keep quiet," Sherlock reprimanded him. "I don't know who else is up here."

"Easy …" John gasped, "… for you to say -- oh _god_!"

He clamped a hand over his own mouth to muffle his moans as Sherlock started to fuck him with deep, powerful thrusts that slammed him into the desk. He squirmed, unable to press back with Sherlock's strong grip at his hips, his feet scraping on the floor.

It was like a claiming, rough and a little bit brutal, far more so that Sherlock had been before. John loved it, being pressed and pulled into whatever position Sherlock wanted him to be in, flashes of incredible pleasure rippling through his body, threatened at the edges by an achingly intimate pain.

John had to clutch at the desk so he wouldn't be ground across it, his sweaty hand pressing at his mouth doing little to capture his gasps and cries as Sherlock grabbed the back of his neck, squeezing, pinning his chest to the desk. The polished wood rubbed at his shirt-front and skin, pressing the buttons into him, over and over as Sherlock fucked him _harder_ , his grunting breaths audible over the slapping of skin.

John was going to come, he was going to come and he hadn't even touched himself. His body clenched in helpless pleasure shuddering closer and closer to orgasm whether he wanted it or not. He had no idea how he was turned on by this, but Sherlock seemed to know his way around John's body better than he did. He knew exactly how much pressure to utilise, how much pain was too much, where to touch to drive John frantically begging for more. John pushed against the heavy hand at his neck, just to revel in the instant application of pressure smacking him back down, when there was a sharp knock at the door.

They both froze, thinking that they each individually had imagined it.

Sherlock acted first, sliding out of John and shoving him under the desk. Stunned, and a little brain numb, John curled up at the back, tugging up his pants and hastily doing up his shirt buttons with fingers sweaty with arousal. Sherlock walked to the door in slow, measured steps, and John heard him pull his coat from the hook, the sweep of fabric as he tugged it on, presumably to cover up his rumpled clothes. There was a click, and the door swung open.

"Am I interrupting something?" came a smooth voice, similar in cadence to Sherlock's but softer, subtler, and a little two-faced. A politician's voice.

"Yes, actually," said Sherlock briskly. John willed the stranger to leave, pulling his knees up to his chest, but instead he heard the door swing open wider.

"Well, I'll be brief."

There were footsteps. John huddled tighter until his chest hurt, watching in surprise as Sherlock's slim legs appeared in from of the desk. He was crowded back against the wood as Sherlock sat and tucked his chair in presumably to better hide John. The stranger took a seat behind him, scraping against carpet as he tugged his chair closer until his knees were just by the wood the John hid behind. John covered up his fearful mouth in an attempt to breath quieter. His heart was still racing, his skin unbearably sensitive inside his clothes.

"Vaseline?" said the stranger, and John could almost hear the raised eyebrow.

"I suffer from dry lips," said Sherlock shortly. "What is it that dragged you down from your comfortable desk upstairs, Mycroft?"

 _Mycroft_ , thought John, registering the name away.

"You know very well that I can't talk about that here," said Mycroft serenely. "We never know who might be … listening in."

John's heart jumped in his chest. Did he know? How could he know?

"I'm not wired," Sherlock said derisively, as John started to panic.

"Don't be facetious, dear brother. You know what I'm talking about." There was a pointed pause. "It's a terrible habit of yours."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his feet grazing John. Maybe he was trying to calm him with contact, maybe it was an accidental kick. "Why are you here?"

"Are you sure you're happy with me saying it here?"

"Mycroft …"

There was an uncomfortable little cough from behind John, Mycroft clearing his throat. "Many little complaints have added up," he said. "You've been accused of favouritism. You're disorganised with returning tests. You're cruel to students who ask for your help."

"Only the lazy ones," Sherlock retorted. "You wouldn't know. You don't deal with them from the top of your ivory tower, they're just numbers on paper to you."

"Even so, Sherlock. This is the third warning. One more misdemeanour and you might have to be let go." Mycroft sounded disappointed, like an exasperated parent. "It will be dreadful for the university, because you're the highest ranked lecturer in this place. I'll do my best to persuade them otherwise, of course, but if you cross the line again there is little I can do to help you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock kept him waiting, his posture painfully straight. "… Yes," he bit out eventually.

"Are you going to … alter your behaviour?"

"I'll think about it."

John flinched and clamped his hand tighter over his mouth as he heard a shift of fabric and Mycroft standing. Sherlock didn't move. Seconds stretched out in tense silence, and John wished he could see what was going on. They seemed to be in some sort of silent conversation.

Mycroft broke the silence. "Goodbye, brother," he said loftily, and Sherlock started messing around with his paperwork on the desk, his hands slamming over John's head. He stopped scribbling the moment the door clipped shut and rolled his chair back, ducking down to see John. His face was pale with worry and he held out his hands for John to hold on to, helping him out from under the desk. John felt like he was going to burst into tears, shaking and panicking, his legs watery beneath him.

Sherlock helped him perch on the desk. He was obviously confused as how to act, unsure where to touch to stop John's reaction. John slouched over, his head in his hands, and tried to will himself to stop shaking. He'd been terrified. Sherlock grew visibly more uncomfortable with the sight of John's distress as minutes passed by, smoothing his hands over John's shoulders and giving him an awkward hug.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked. His warm closeness would be comforting in a normal situation, but John was thinking too much to calm down.

He shook his head. "He knows, doesn't he? He knew I was there the whole time, under your desk. He knows what we've been doing."

Sherlock drew back to look at him, his eyebrows furrowed as he thought. "Don't worry about that," he said eventually. "Mycroft isn't going to tell anyone, he's on my side."

"If they find out you're with me they'll _fire_ you," John choked. He tried not to think about his own reputation. What if it was a slow news day, and their relationship got into the paper? What would his dad say? That simple thought had him crumpling again, and Sherlock had to hold him upright.

"John, stop panicking," he said firmly. "John, look at me. Everything is fine."

"What if that was someone else?" John retorted. "Someone who wasn't on our side?" An image flashed through his mind of the unnerving Jim and his wide grin, and he shivered. The door was unlocked. Anyone could walk in, even _him_. "I need to go."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, reluctantly dropping his grip as John batted his hands away.

"I just … need some space," John said, straightening out his clothes until he looked vaguely respectable. He popped his collar to hide the bruise at the side of his throat, smoothed a hand over it. It ached under his fingers. "I need to think."

"John," Sherlock started, but John raised his hands.

"Please," he said earnestly, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. "I don't ask much of you, you know? Just … let me go for now."

Sherlock looked like the world had been snatched out from under his feet. "We can talk," he offered desperately. "You like talking."

"I'll see you tomorrow," John insisted, and at Sherlock's little inhale of frustration he shook his head. He pressed his hands to the wool at Sherlock's chest, and then trailed them up to cup Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock blinked down at him impassively. "It's not your fault," John said to him, unsure of what emotion he was trying to comfort. "This is all me."

Sherlock considered him for a moment, silent. "You're being idiotic, but I suppose I can forgive you that."

John left him standing there by his messy desk, and shut the door behind him. He needed a drink.


	5. Chapter 5

At a table in the corner of a small pub, John and Sarah sat talking over their drinks. John nursed a beer, and Sarah sipped at a sugary alcopop. It was the last week of lectures before exams, and they'd just finished their day. John was tense after spending an hour staring at Sherlock, but Sarah always managed to calm him down. She looked over at him now and clasped her hands together, nervous.

"Look John, I've been meaning to ask. Is everything alright with you?"

John wasn't even surprised. Sarah could only go so long before wanting to help. It's one of the reasons she wanted to be a doctor. But this wasn't her burden.

"I'm fine," he said easily, and smiled.

"It's just …" She took a huff of breath, and pursed her lips. "Well. You've been acting a bit odd."

John flicked over his past actions in his head. He could sort of see where she was coming from. With a sigh, he pulled his beer in close to him, as if for warmth, and stared into the golden liquid. "I can't talk about it," he said eventually. And the unspoken _I'm not sure if I want to._

"We could go somewhere else?" Sarah suggested.

"No," he tried. "I can't tell other people."

Sarah leant forward a little, concerned. "John, are you in some sort of trouble?" she asked seriously. When John didn't reply, she grew alarmed. "Look, you're my best friend. You can tell me anything."

She slid her hand over the table, like she did when they were dating and she wanted to make a connection when she told him something, like Sherlock had back in his flat, before kissing him with lips that tasted like wine. John winced. "No, it's …"

It was horrible, keeping secrets. And he didn't have to tell her _everything_. John determinedly downed his beer, and stood. Sarah stood with him, and he could see her round-eyed stare out of his peripheral vision.

"Come on," he said with a sigh. "Let's go home."

Sarah followed him out, and once they were in the streets she walked close alongside him, tucking her hand under his arm. She looked at him every so often, as John stared resolutely ahead, his mind whirring. He felt like he was going to burst.

"I'm going to tell you something private," he said eventually.

Sarah squeezed her grip on his arm, a subtle hug. "Okay."

"Like, so private that I haven't really come to terms with it myself yet," he admitted.

"Do you want to sit down?" Sarah asked, already looking around for a handy bench or bus stop. John tugged her along.

"Let's keep walking."

They strode off down the streets in silence as John worked up the courage to say what he had to say. It was a fifteen minute walk home, and there was no-on else about. Perfect, really.

"That girl that you think I'm seeing," John started, and Sarah nodded. "It's um … well, she is actually a he."

"Oh!" Sarah stopped walking for a moment, nearly tripping over.

"Yeah," said John. He stared at the pavement.

"Oh wow." Sarah seemed genuinely surprised. "John, I had no idea."

She looked a little upset, so John was quick to clarify. "I mean, I still fancy girls. I liked you, when we were dating. It's just … I also fancy some guys."

Sarah's eyebrows furrowed in thought. "So you're bisexual?"

"I don't know," John said. He hadn't thought about labels. "I'd say I'm mostly straight."

"How serious is it with this guy? You must have been seeing each other for months."

John took a deep breath and glanced up at the sky. "I really don't know," he said honestly. "I mean, I care about him. I care about him a lot. It's weird, because I've never felt this way before, but I don't know how much that has to do with him being a _him_ or if it's something more. And he's smart, and brilliant, and really really good looking …" he trailed off when he noticed Sarah's amused little smile. "It's … complicated."

"Okay," she said, with a firm nod. "Well, thank you for telling me. I'm glad I have nothing to worry about anymore."

"Just … keep it to yourself, yeah?" he asked, scuffing his feet as he walked.

"Of course, babe."

She stopped abruptly and tugged John around, giving him a serious look before pulling him into a hug. Her arms wrapped around his waist and squeezed, and John hugged back, feeling the wonderful sensation of relief. It was like he'd been depressurised.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was Friday, and John had sat through the last Biochemistry lecture he'd ever have to sit through. Sherlock, in an uncharacteristic turn of friendliness, wished them luck for their exams when he'd finished, a smile creeping up over his pale face as everyone clapped and chattered, grabbing their bags and heading for the exit.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said. "Consider yourselves free." And he switched off his microphone, tugging it from his pocket and settling down to scribble in his notebook as students left. Some came along to thank him, and he acknowledged them with a nod and a barely noticeable smile. John knew Sherlock. He could read the slight flickers of emotion to see that Sherlock was quite overwhelmed by all the praise. He denied it, but he was the best known lecturer in the university, for good and bad reasons. He was the best teacher John had ever had, once he'd made that first connection.

He sidled up to Sherlock's lectern, the last in a line of students, smiling.

"Hello John," said Sherlock, eyeing the last of the students leave.

"Well, uhm, thanks for teaching me and all that," John said, tapping his fingers on the wood.

"My pleasure," Sherlock said, with a grin. "One can only hope it pays off."

The door slid shut, and they were in the giant theatre on their own. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration as he packed up his possessions into his bag, tilting his head as he examined letters that had been left for him by his students. John watched him. Sherlock looked strangely beautiful when he was focusing, analysing, like he was something alien. His hair curled softly over his ear, less crisp that usual. His skin was ethereal under the bright lights.

John looked away. "Sherlock, I …"

Sherlock turned to look at him, questioning. John coughed nervously, then glanced back up to meet the watchful gaze. His conversation with Sarah had sparked off a few thoughts in his head.

"I was thinking. Maybe we should stop all this until after the exams."

"What's prompted this?" Sherlock asked, turning to face John fully, propping himself up with an elbow on the lectern.

"Oh, you know," John said, shrugging. "Having to hide under your desk like a criminal when your brother interrupted us."

Sherlock's mouth tugged down at the edges. He seemed to think for a moment, his eyes flickering to the ceiling. Then he reached out, and smoothed a hand down John's upper arm in a soothing gesture. It was comforting. "You were very upset," Sherlock mused.

"It's only a few weeks," John said, stepping a little closer. Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his arm, holding him there, but otherwise he was unmoving. John didn't look away from the pale, scrutinising gaze. "Look, Sherlock," he admitted. "I really want us to work. You mean …" he swallowed awkwardly. "You mean an awful lot to me. If we just wait then we can start afresh, and there won't be any university red tape in the way."

Sherlock made a humming noise, pushing off the lectern and standing straight over John. He cupped John's jaw and pulled his head up to force eye contact, and John was about to complain when the hand at his arm shifted to stroke possessively over his cheek.

"Sherlock?" John said slowly, repressing a flinch when Sherlock abruptly rubbed his smooth thumb over John's lower lip, his eyes narrowing. John inhaled sharply as Sherlock bowed closer. He could feel Sherlock's breath over his skin. The alien stare was downcast, fixated on John's mouth.

Sherlock slid his hand up the back of John's scalp, his palm cupping John's skull. His other hand tugged John's jaw up, and with a tilt of his head he leant in and kissed John like he was trying to steal the breath out of his throat.

John moaned, his eyes sliding shut, and melted into the kiss. He clutched his arms around Sherlock's waist to feel more of that stupidly tall body against his own as Sherlock tangled his fingers messily into John's hair. Sherlock's breath puffed against his cheek from his nose, and his hold on John grew less controlling and more yearning. John pulled away first, blinking, swallowing down his gasping breaths as Sherlock released him, his hands smoothing over John's shoulders.

"I will miss your company," Sherlock said simply, his cheeks flushed.

"Yeah," John croaked. He looked up at Sherlock and felt emotion well up in his chest. "God, Sherlock, I …" He shook his head desperately, unable to put what he was feeling into words. He leant in again. He couldn't help himself.

Sherlock ducked down to meet his lips, and they kissed, slow and easy. John sucked gently at Sherlock's mouth, inhaling his slow breathes. He felt the shape of him, pressed so close, the tall slender body he knew so well, wrapped up in a smooth suit.

There was a gasp behind them.

They jerked apart from each other as if magnetically repelled, and John whirled around to see Molly standing at the door, her eyes wide in surprise.

"Molly-" John started, but she ran off, and the door clipped shut behind her. He felt the surge of Sherlock at his back, eager to run after her, but John flung out his hand to still him. "No," he insisted. "You'll scare her."

"How dare she just walk in like that!" Sherlock yelled. He dropped his furious stare at the door to look at John, fear flickering over his features. Perhaps he was wary of John having another breakdown.

"Sherlock, it's fine," John insisted. "I'll talk to her."

"She's your friend?"

John nodded firmly. He didn't mention his fears about Jim.

He left Sherlock standing shell-shocked at the lectern, and raced off after Molly. He reached out and yanked open the door, staring anxiously down the hallway. He couldn't see her anywhere. But there! There was the clip clop of Molly's little heels to the right. John chased after her.

She was out of the building, and trotting down the streets. John easily outran her, and held up his hands as she cried out. He wasn't going to hurt her. She looked at him, terrified, and kept on walking just a little bit too quickly.

"Molly, please," he begged, following alongside.

"I'm sorry," Molly whispered. "I'm sorry."

There were people walking past them, but no-one seemed to pay attention to them. Still, this wasn't the sort of conversation John wanted to have in public. He put a hand at Molly's back, and guided her to the side of the lecture theatre, down a side alley. His heart was racing in his chest. Molly meekly followed him until they were secluded, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to sink into the ground.

"I'm so sorry, John."

John looked around, twice, and then turned his attention to Molly. "You're my friend, right Molly?" he said desperately.

Molly nodded frantically. "Yes John, I'm your friend."

"Then please, for me, don't tell anyone," John pleaded. "No-one. Not a soul."

Molly looked at him with frightened bewilderment, clutching her bag closer to her body. "Why were you kissing him, John? He's a teacher."

John remembered her surprise at John's steadily climbing Biochemistry grades, and he shook his head. "No!" he exclaimed. "No. It's nothing like that."

"Why were you kissing a teacher, John?" she asked, her voice breaking a little.

John sighed, and walked a little way off, checking around yet again for any eavesdroppers. He turned back to Molly, who stood by the wall, nervously clutching her hands together and staring at him in abject confusion. John glanced to the side, then down at his feet. "We were seeing each other," he said quietly.

Molly sniffed, and walked a little closer. "Is this the secret girlfriend of yours, then?"

"Yeah," John admitted. Molly stood in front of him, teary eyed. "God, I'm sorry," he said, looking back at her. "But I couldn't tell you who it really was, could I?" Molly nodded, her watery eyes threatening to spill, and John shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Oh Molly, stop crying. Here."

He handed her a tissue, which she took and dabbed under her eyes. She looked up at him, calmer now. "I was just shocked, that's all," she mumbled. "That's not how I saw you at all. Or him, for that matter," she added as in if by afterthought. "He always seemed so … aloof."

John huffed a laugh. "Believe me, I'm just as surprised," he said, and Molly smiled back. "Now, please, don't tell-"

Molly waved her hands. You know I wouldn't tell anyone, John," she said airily. "It's your business, not mine …" she trailed off, and the smile suddenly dropped from her face as if she'd just remembered something unpleasant.

"What?" John asked.

"I didn't just …" Molly started, and then she swallowed nervously. "Jim told me … he's the one that told me to go back into the lecture theatre." Her eyelids fluttered shut. "To see something interesting, he said."

John stared at her in horror. "Jim _knows?_ "

"Why would he want me to see that?" Molly was completely confused. "I don't understand him."

John took hold of her shoulders. "Molly, this is very important," he said seriously. "Where is Jim?"

Molly blinked up at him. "I … why?"

"I need to talk to him," John insisted.

"You're going to hurt him, aren't you?" Molly pulled away, and crossed her arms. "Oh John, I'm sure he didn't mean any harm by it. He's just got an odd sense of humour-"

"I wouldn't! I just want to talk to him," John exclaimed. "Where is he?"

"I don't know!" Molly cried. "I came running to look for him, but he'd gone."

John took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair, then hunched over and pinched his brow. "Christ …"

"I'm sure he won't tell anyone," Molly said quietly. She didn't sound like she believed it.

John rubbed his face and looked up at her. "Did he have any lectures? Where do the computer guys have their lessons?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Call him," John said. "Call him now."

Molly scrabbled in her bag and pulled out her phone, nearly dropping it. She shakily pressed at the buttons, and then raised the phone to her ear, casting nervous glances at John while biting her lip. "No answer," she said eventually.

John bit back a swearword. He clenched and unclenched his fists, utterly at a loss as what to do next. "Right," he says, rubbing his hands together. "Okay. Fine. Don't tell anyone, Molly, and if Jim calls back you tell him that."

Molly nodded, her eyes wide.

John raced back to the building he'd come from, nearly running into a group of students who were leaving. He yelled out an apology as he darted down the hallway, skidding to a stop outside the lecture theatre. He pushed at the door, and it moved under his fingers. Unlocked, no lecture going on. When he stepped inside, the place was empty, and cold from lack of bodies. Rows upon rows of grey seats looked down on him, and the lights had been dimmed. Sherlock had long gone.

John stepped slowly towards the lectern, his footsteps echoing loudly as they struck the wood. He hadn't noticed the place was so ambient before. He looked out towards the seats, and tried to imagine them full of faces, and found that he couldn't.

With a sigh, he paced over to the front row of seats and slumped down, pulling out his phone to text Sherlock. In the reflection of the screen, he could see the silhouette of a man looming behind his head.

"Jesus!" he yelled, jumping to his feet and spinning around, nearly falling backwards. Jim stood behind the first row of seats, dressed in skinny jeans and a black shirt. He had a phone in his skinny white hand, and that unnerving grin on his face.

"Hiya!"

He must have been hiding under the seats, John hadn't even heard him come in. "What the hell are you playing at, Jim!?" he shouted, leaping forward.

"Ah ah," Jim tutted, holding up the phone, his thumb resting over the enter button. "No touching."

On the screen was a photo. It was difficult to make out at the lower resolution, but John recognised the contents straight away. It was him and Sherlock rendered in pixels, kissing by the lectern. John's stomach twisted in horror. The photo made their kiss look a lot more dirty than it actually felt, with Sherlock's hands at his face, and John clinging to him, his arms rumpling Sherlock's suit. Jim's grin widened.

"You so much as lay a finger on me, Johnny boy, and I press this button." He leant a little closer, like he was sharing a secret. "And you don't want me to press this button."

John took several deep breaths, stumbling back on weak legs so he wouldn't be tempted, shaking with fury. Jim watched him with a glint in his beetle black eyes.

"If I press it, this indiscrete little photo of yours will be sent everywhere," he drawled. "And I do mean everywhere. Facebook, my phone contacts, the university mailing list …" he trailed off and sniggered. "Which I believe includes your messed up little family."

"What the fuck do you want, Jim?" John asked, his voice straining, threatening to break. Jim's nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"Let me educate you, Johnny," he snapped. "Sherlock Holmes is a manipulative bastard. He does what he wants, and he gets away with it because his brother is buried in the administration of the university, hiding all the things he does wrong." With that, he leapt over the first row of chairs and stalked over to John, who stood his ground. Jim looked terrifyingly on edge up close, like with the slightest application of pressure he'd explode in John's face. He peered at John with his huge black eyes, his mouth twisted in a scowl. "Do you have any idea just how many students he's fucked over that desk of his?"

John blanked. "What?"

Jim tilted his head. "Oh, thought you were special, did you?" he said, with a humourless laugh. He started to slowly circle John, his thumb unmoving from the button on his phone. "Everyone thought they were special," Jim spat. "Everyone _loves_ Dr Holmes."

"Why are you doing this?" John asked, staring resolutely ahead.

Jim came to a stop in front of him, and smiled thinly at the screen. "Because last year, I was you."

John frowned. "But you study-"

"Don't be stupid, Johnny," said Jim easily. "You know what I mean. You've been through it yourself. He pulled me in, I got to know him, and then I got to _know_ him." He raised his eyebrows. "In the biblical sense of the word."

John swallowed. "I don't believe you," he said eventually.

But Jim wasn't listening. "That miserable fucker broke my heart, and his brother covered the whole thing up. But I told him, he can't keep pulling shit that that." His face crumpled in rage. "Not without _consequences_."

"And you're the consequence, are you?" John said, folding his arms across his chest.

"That I am," Jim replied, with a mad grin.

"I don't believe you," John repeated.

"You don't have to believe me," said Jim, sniffing. "If denial makes you feel better about being used to stoke his tremendous ego, then deny away. That won't make this photo any less damaging." He sneered, peering at the photo while tilting his head, as though examining it from different angles. "I'd like to see his brother cover up a university wide mass email and multiple postings on the internet, I really would."

"Please don't," John said quickly. Jim looked up at him.

"Oh?"

"I don't know about your past with Sherlock," John continued, raising his hands. "I don't want to know. But I didn't do anything to you, Jim. You'd ruin me too, if you sent that out."

"That's why I'm here," Jim said, scowling, like John was being stupid on purpose. Then he grinned again, white teeth flashing. "I've got a deal for you."

John felt trepidation start to creep up his spine at that grin. "Which is?"

Jim looked over him carefully, and then shifted. "Get me a photo of Sherlock in a compromising position," he demanded. "Just him. You can crop yourself out. If you do that for me, I'll send your new one instead of this." He rolled his shoulders. "Either way, I'm sending a photo tonight."

John gaped. "You …" he started, and then stopped. "I can't. We're on a break."

"Aww," Jim crooned. "On a break? Like a proper relationship?" He skipped away a little, holding the phone in his clasped hands. "You're an idiot, John! There is no 'to be continued dot dot dot'. He's already got everything he wants from you." Jim paused, and swivelled on his heel to face John again. "He can only handle being normal for so long, before he gets bored of the pretence. Believe me, sweetheart. Your relationship is long past its sell by date."

Fuck this, John thought, and moved to go.

"Send me a photo by midnight!" Jim called. "Or I'm sending this one, and I don't care what it does to your stupid reputation."

John stopped by the door, his hand on the handle. He felt weary just looking at Jim.

"I'll text you my number," Jim called, as John shoved open the door and walked out.

He kept on walking.

London grew darker around him, and the people he passed didn't spare a second glance at the small young man out without a jacket, hands shoved deep in his jean pockets as he shuffled down streets until he was chill to the bone. It was only when he stumbled, tripping on a crack in the pavement, that he realised he was exhausted. He sat down at a nearby bus stop. His teeth were chattering.

He hated himself in that moment, for acting like such a melodramatic twit. With a sigh that let out a stream of clouds, he pulled out his phone. Jim had texted him his number, a smiley face at the end. Sherlock had been calling him, but because John's phone was on silent he hadn't heard it. To his surprise, the phone started ringing while he was holding it.

Sherlock.

"John?" came Sherlock's low voice down the phoneline.

John slumped back into the bench, crossing his ankles. "I thought you preferred to text?" he said with a grin. He tugged his shirt tighter around himself, but it did nothing to block out the cold.

"These are different circumstances," Sherlock replied. He sounded a little worried, although it was difficult to tell without looking at him. "I thought you'd rather hear my voice than read. Did you talk to the girl?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "I remember you reacted badly last time we were interrupted."

"This isn't li-like last time," John stuttered, nearly biting his tongue. "Oh Christ …" he muttered, clenching his eyes shut as he remembered Jim's taunts. Jim's threat.

Sherlock paused for a moment, but John could still hear him breathing. "John," he said slowly. "Why don't you come over?"

And John … couldn't. He held his head in his hand as he clutched the phone to his cheek, and resisted the urge to burst into tears.

"Please," Sherlock said.

"I haven't got enough for the tube," John muttered. It wasn't a lie, he'd had Sarah take his stuff home.

"Take a taxi. I'll pay."

John shook his head uselessly, even though Sherlock wouldn't see it. He tapped his feet on the ground, shivering.

"John."

"Okay," John mumbled. "Okay, fine."

Sherlock exhaled a sigh of what might have been relief. Then he was all back to business. "I'll see you soon," he said in a clipped voice.

"Bye," said John, scrambling to his feet. He clicked off the phone and headed towards the station to try and find an unoccupied taxi. He tried not too think to hard about what he was going to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Heavy clouds rolled in as the night grew darker, and as John neared to the station it started to rain. First, little spits that landed on his face, and then cold droplets, and before John knew it he was soaking wet, splashing through puddles as his clothes stuck to his skin. The only taxi he saw was pulled up by the station, the header lights out. He could see the silhouette of a man behind the water dotted glass, reading a newspaper. Off duty.

John hunched down and scrambled over, hoping the man would take pity on him. He knocked on the window, knuckles slippery over glass, and the driver sighed and folded away his paper, rolling it down a little. John peered through the gap.

“Can you take me to 221B Baker Street?”

“I'm not on duty, son,” replied the taxi driver with a shrug. “Sorry.”

John dug his hands into his pockets and squinted against the rain to look for another cab, but of course there weren’t any. The driver must have taken pity on him, because he sighed, and stretched.

“Fine, then. Hop in,” he grumbled.

The orange light flared up in front of John, and the taxi hummed to a start. “Thank you,” John said earnestly, teeth chattering, and he yanked open the door with shaking hands and ducked into the back seat, feeling a wonderful roll of heat over him. “Oh god, thank you.”

The cabbie flicked on the meter, and they set off. John shivered in the back seat as water trickled down from his wet hair to crawl under his shirt collar, and he rubbed his hands on his jeans in an unsuccessful attempt to dry them. At least his phone still worked.

He texted Sherlock to wait for him once they neared Baker Street, and sat forward, staring out the window as the streetlamps flashed by and the middle of the city turned into rows of houses and shops, blurred by the water that slid down the glass in spidering lines. As they pulled up towards 221B, John saw a shape in the window smudge and move away, and as the cab rolled to a stop the front door swung open, spilling light onto the pavement. Sherlock leapt out in a flurry of long limbs, swung open a large black umbrella, and swept over to the taxi.

“He’s paying,” John explained, as Sherlock dug about in his pockets. The cabbie nodded and rolled down his window as John clambered out. He ducked under Sherlock’s umbrella and shivered by his side, curling close to the warm wool coat as Sherlock paid up with a bunch of notes from his pocket. The taxi moved off, and Sherlock ushered John inside with impatient hands.

“You’re freezing, you imbecile,” he rumbled, as if it were John’s fault that the weather had changed so suddenly.

He shook out the umbrella and slammed the door shut, eyes scanning over John’s rather sorry looking self, and he tilted his head at the mud that spattered John’s trainers and jeans. Probably working out where he’d been walking. “I didn’t think it would rain,” John admitted, his chattering teeth ruining his words. Sherlock looked pale and imperious, standing a little way from John with a slight sheen of dampness from his few seconds in the rain. John had wanted to talk to Sherlock about Jim, but just seeing him so close again was enough to scatter his thoughts. They could talk later, once John knew what to say.

Sherlock turned away and stabbed the umbrella into a stand. “You must have been walking for quite a while,” he observed. “That was a lot more expensive than I thought it would be.”

“I'm sorry,” John shuddered, rubbing at his arms. He felt tremendously guilty. “I'll pay you back.”

Sherlock waved his hand, the universal gesture of ‘it’s fine’, and John let himself be shoved upstairs. He was dripping water all over the floorboards. “Get some clothes from my room,” Sherlock ordered, and John nodded. “And a clean towel from the bathroom. You look like someone’s tried to drown you.”

John self-consciously smoothed his hand through his hair, and Sherlock smirked at him.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said. “You can disturb me later.”

“Right,” said John. Sherlock darted away, and John trudged the familiar path upstairs.

It felt a bit weird shifting through Sherlock’s dresser. Being given permission to search through someone’s possessions felt oddly intimate. John didn’t find anything terrifying, even though he’d been half expecting to find something ridiculous like a nest of bats tucked away in Sherlock’s sock drawer. But then he didn’t find much in the way of warm clothes. Sherlock dressed mostly in thin, smooth fabrics. John recognised things he’d seen Sherlock wear with a little jolt in his chest, and a smile.

He felt rude taking anything nice, so he pulled out a relatively worn long sleeve v-neck and some trackpants, trying not to drip any water on the clean clothes. When he tiptoed downstairs to check on Sherlock, the lounge was in darkness, most light shining from the kitchen. The sliding doors had been pulled shut, and John could see Sherlock’s dark outline at the kitchen table through the frosted glass, peering into a compound microscope. The shape moved as he broke away every so often to record his observations. He seemed completely absorbed in his work, undisturbed by John’s presence.

John headed to the bathroom and peeled his wet clothes off. He towelled himself dry, rubbing the damp out of his skin and hair, and peered at himself in the mirror. He pulled at his skin, frowning. Sherlock was right, he did look a bit drowned. Or maybe he was just tired.

Tugging on Sherlock’s incredibly comfortable clothes (he didn’t dare look at any labels) John combed his fingers through his hair and padded barefoot back into the living room, dumping his wet clothes by the door.

Sherlock must have heard him. “Are you warm?” he called out. “You can start the fire if you want.”

John was about to answer when he saw the silhouette move in a silken dark ripple over the glass. The doors slid open and Sherlock stood there, his smirk badly hidden at the corners of his mouth. He’d taken his coat off, dressed in his usual shirt and dark trousers, like he was off somewhere with a dress code for dinner.

“You do know how to start a fire, don't you?”

“Of course I do,” John said. He folded his arms as Sherlock looked over him, the smirk growing wider. “I'm surprised you do, though. Isn't that what the servants did?”

“Very funny,” said Sherlock, and he leant casually against the side of the door. His smile didn’t even waver. John shrugged.

“Wood?” he asked, his hands hovering by his side. He looked over to Sherlock in askance. “Kindling?”

Sherlock nodded his head past John. “In that cupboard under the bookshelf.”

John saw. He crouched down beside it and pulled it open, revealing a small stack of firewood beside a collection of newspapers and magazine with holes in them, from where Sherlock had cut out his articles of interest. Pulling out a log, he weighed it in his hand, thinking. A couple of years in Scouts had taught him how to make a good outdoors fire, but he didn’t know the procedure for starting one in a fireplace. Sherlock must have seen the confusion in his movements because he swept over, kneeling beside John and taking the log from him with a brush of skin on skin.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” he said smoothly. “Look.” And he pulled a lever. There was a scrape of metal as the dampner opened, and then a slight draft. “Cold air sinks,” said Sherlock. “It'll push the smoke into the house, so first you reverse the draft.” He looked focussed, a little like he did when he was teaching. “Pass me the newspaper,” he said, with a wriggle of his fingers.

John watched him ball up a few pages and light them in the fireplace. When they’d burnt out, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and made him feel the difference from the chimney.

“Gets rid of the cold air plug,” Sherlock explained, releasing his fingers from around John’s wrist. “See? Now the smoke will go out the chimney, not into my living room.”

Together, they built the fire to Sherlock’s standards, and then Sherlock had John light it. He seemed to like watching John do things, eyes fixed on his every movement with that steady concentration. John had to keep rolling up the sleeves of Sherlock’s sweater, otherwise his palms were completely covered. Sherlock found it incredibly amusing.

“There’s something nice about a fire,” John mused later, as they sat side by side watching the wood burn.

“Mm,” hummed Sherlock pleasantly. Their shoulders pressed together, and the sides of their hands brushed as they shifted. John felt enormously at piece, with the rain battering against the windows, warmed by a brightly burning fire that crackled and sparked before them. Neither of them moved for what seemed like ages, even when the position grew uncomfortable.

And he’d been right, earlier. Sherlock looked beautiful by firelight, his pale skin glowing, his harsh features softened by diffuse light that shone in the curls of his hair. Sherlock turned to face him, his eyelashes flicking down, and then up again. The corners of his lips tensed into a smile. Abruptly, he moved closer, and with a cursory glance over John’s confused face, leant down and kissed him. John was caught unprepared. He could do little but murmur breathlessly into it, arching his neck and shutting his eyes as Sherlock pressed a hand warmly over his thigh, the other splayed against the floor to support him. His hair brushed against John’s forehead.

John realised he had a chance here, as Sherlock shifted his weight onto his knees, placing both hands now on John’s hips, rubbing up his sides. He could either betray Sherlock, or they both go down together.

Sherlock crowded him against the red armchair until his shoulders were pressed against it, and then crawled over him, long limbs reaching, large hands cupping John’s cheeks. After a searching kiss, he pulled away, and John looked up into his face as it tilted, brows furrowed, as if he was trying very hard to deduce the best method of kissing him. His pale eyes glimmered as he smoothly leant down to suck on John’s upper lip.

“Sherlock,” John murmured softly, feeling the curl of Sherlock’s grin. Sherlock smoothed over John’s shape as he kissed, caressing, stroking. He inhaled greedily when they broke apart, smelling him, breathing him in before ducking right back down to kiss again. It was slow, luxurious, and wonderfully unhurried. John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s back, feeling the heat, the planes of bone and hard muscle, the softness of his slender waist. He could do this for hours. He wondered what Sherlock was thinking.

Sherlock’s lips pressed against the side of his mouth, along his jawline, to nibble on the lobe of his ear. John tilted his head back and let out a quiet moan, and Sherlock was back on him in an instant as if trying to capture the sound with his own mouth. It was almost chaste, and so honestly desirous that John realised that he couldn’t do this. Not without telling Sherlock everything.

With some difficulty, John ducked away. Sherlock looked momentarily confused, but he quickly understood the look on John’s face. “Of course,” he muttered. “A break. I … forgot.”

John smiled thinly, curling away from Sherlock to rest against the armchair. Sherlock sat back, a little shocked at his own lapse in memory. Then his face lit up.

“I have something to show you,” he said gleefully.

John looked up at him suspiciously. He hadn’t expected this. “What?” he asked, thinking of cats that brought home dead animals.

“Wait there,” Sherlock insisted. “Don’t move.” And he leapt to his feet in an impossibly smooth movement, and dashed out the doorway. With a bewildered blink, John stayed put, frowning as he heard Sherlock noisily storm up the stairs. He sat and waited with easy patience, a little confused. When Sherlock reappeared, he stared up at him expectantly. As far as he could tell, Sherlock wasn’t holding anything.

Sherlock looked silently pleased at the sight of John on his living room floor. He walked over, and held out a hand. John took it, and Sherlock yanked him to his feet with easy strength, pulling him close and holding him there with a palm at his elbow.

“Do you remember how you wanted to travel before you went to university?” Sherlock said, apparently at random. John’s eyebrows creased together.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock pulled an envelope out of his pocket, tapping it against his chin with an unreadable expression. His eyes flickered between John and the carpet. “I arranged a little something for your holidays after the exams,” he said eventually, holding out the envelope. John cautiously reached out and took it. At Sherlock’s nod, he tore it open. Inside were two Eurostar tickets to Paris, printed and carefully folded together. John looked up in confusion.

“Sherlock..?” he said faintly.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders. “You, me, and the continent of Europe,” he said shortly. He grew a little uncomfortable at John’s lack of movement, and rubbed his hands together. “I know it's not Africa, or East Asia, but Mycroft controls the Holmes family estate and he's hardly going to grant me money for something he disapproves of. And I have little savings.” He shrugged. “But, I know Europe well. I'll make sure you get the most out of it.”

John swallowed thickly, holding the tickets with the lightest touch as though afraid of breaking them. “Sherlock, I don't know what to say,” he stammered. He tried to think but found he couldn’t, his mind filled with images of him and Sherlock in Paris avoiding tourist traps, hiring a car and driving to wherever they wanted to go, new places and people with languages that John could barely speak. Him and Sherlock in hotels, far away from anyone who would judge them.

“This will be after our break, of course,” Sherlock continued, as though John hadn’t said anything. “When we're together again. I … I thought it might be something to look forward to.” Vulnerability flashed across his stern features for the briefest second, and John wanted nothing more than to rush over to him and thank him, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Sherlock, of course, noticed his discomfort. “It's too much, isn't it,” he muttered.

John shook his head. “No, it's not that,” he assured him. He paused, and then handed back the tickets.

Sherlock pocketed them, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

John’s voice caught around the dreaded words. “Can we ... talk?”

This time, Sherlock didn’t mock him, or move away to physically avoid conversation. He looked a bit uncomfortable, but compared to the sighing and eyerolling he got before, it was nothing. When he remained silent, staring impassively, John took it as permission to continue.

“I've heard these rumours,” he started. “About you.”

Sherlock didn’t react. “From what I understand, you people talk about little else.”

John licked his lips. He shifted his feet on the floor, and glanced downwards. “You and other students.”

Sherlock’s reaction was immediate. He gave a little exhale, and seemed to draw into himself a little, eyes darting to the side. John stood straighter, despite the feeling that his chest was shrivelling up more and more each passing second at Sherlock’s non-denial.

After a tense moment of silence, John decided to test the issue. “Sherlock,” he pleaded, stepping a little closer. Sherlock glared at him, scowling.

“You didn’t ask me a question,” he said tersely.

“Have you slept with your students before?” Something in his posture must have affected Sherlock. Perhaps it was his tone, or perhaps Sherlock had picked up on just how frightened John was under the false bravado. His mouth tensed at the edges, and he dragged a hand through his curls, his expression softening.

“You're the first who has called me on it,” he murmured, glancing down at John, whose heart had suddenly become terribly heavy. Jim hadn’t been lying. “Then again, you've stayed around a lot longer than the others.” Sherlock sighed and rested his hands on his hips, staring moodily into the fireplace behind John. “I should have seen this coming. Who told you?”

John suddenly found it very difficult to stand. “I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head furiously.

Sherlock stared back at him, defensive. “Don’t get angry,” he said, with careful calm. “This is different. You’re different.”

“We're all different, Sherlock!” John retorted, and Sherlock’s mouth downturned into a scowl.

“I don’t see the point in getting upset on their behalf.”

“Because I didn't think of you as the sort of person who would do something like that,” John said, and he turned around, resisting the urge to drop his head into his hands. “I can't ... you can't just ...”

“You think you're one of the many, don't you,” Sherlock said pithily, and when John looked at him he seemed genuinely offended. But maybe John wasn’t as good at reading Sherlock as he thought he was. John clenched his fists.

“Aren't I?”

“No,” said Sherlock, with abrupt certainty. “You're not.” His stare was like an accusation. John swallowed, and kept his distance.

“And how many people have you told that to?” he asked weakly.

Sherlock stared at him for so long that John wondered if he was even going to answer. Then the pale eyes flicked nervously to the ground. “Just you.”

John shifted on his feet, blinking hurriedly. “I don't believe you,” he said eventually.

“I have never lied to you,” Sherlock said sharply. “ _Ever_. I may have withheld the truth every so often-“

“That's the same as lying!” John retorted, and Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, staring off to the side again. “Do you know what happened to me today? After you kissed me in the lecture theatre?”

Sherlock looked up at him in interest. John stepped forward, his hands clenched in fists by his sides.

“Jim Moriarty,” he said quietly.

Sherlock blanched, frighteningly pale. “He talked to you,” he muttered, almost a whisper, like John wasn’t supposed to hear. “John, don't listen to him. He was a mistake.”

John felt like laughing. “Oh, you slipped and fell and pushed him into your bed?”

“You are the only one I let in,” Sherlock re-joined immediately, like John had just insulted him. “Do you think I bring them all home? Let them stay over?” The venom in his voice was enough to make John freeze in place. He stared at Sherlock in something like fear. Sherlock softened. “Why don't you believe me when I show you I care for you?”

John was desperately confused. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. “Sherlock,” he said softly. “I ...”

He wanted to believe Sherlock, that he was telling the truth, that he truly cared for John. But even if he did, that still left an uncounted number of students that Sherlock had picked up and discarded as he wanted. John wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of being with someone who could do something like that.

“Look,” he said. “Jim told me something.”

“He's a manipulative little liar,” Sherlock growled. “Don't listen to him.”

He sounded bitter, but John didn’t pry. “He knows about us.”

“Obviously, or he wouldn't have confronted you.”

“He wants revenge, Sherlock,” John said. “He's got a picture of us.” Sherlock froze, his eyes wide. “You know what that would mean if he sent it out. You'd be kicked out, and I …” John broke off, shaking his head. He didn’t want to think about it. Glancing back up at Sherlock, he continued. “Jim wants revenge. He says you broke his heart.”

Sherlock looked lost in memory, gazing off into the middle distance. “I'd rather not talk about it,” he said eventually, voice rough. Perhaps there were bad memories there. Sherlock lifted his chin, and narrowed his eyes. “He must have been planning this for a while.”

“So he knew about us even earlier?” John asked, mouth agape.

Sherlock shrugged, apparently unbothered. “He times his attacks to best advantage. The man has a sick talent for organisation. I dread to think how he’ll apply it in later life.”

John looked at him carefully. Sherlock stared back, pokerfaced, and John sighed. “Anyway, I asked him not to send it.”

“As good a strategy as any when it comes to that man.”

“In return, he wanted me to ...” John gulped, and had to look away. Before he knew it, Sherlock had stepped close, his brows furrowed in worry, his lips pursed, leaning in to see John’s expression. He was probably thinking something like coercion, or harassment. John shut his eyes. “He wanted me get a picture of you, just you. You know. To send instead.”

His words hung awkwardly in the air, and Sherlock actually flinched back as though John had hit him. “You would do that?”

John blinked his eyes open, and looked up at him, at the pale face slack with shock. “Of course not,” he said weakly. “I would never.”

“And what happens if you don't?” Sherlock’s face returned to its careful composure.

“He sends the one of both of us at midnight.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look. “Midnight … tonight?” he asked.

John nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“John,” Sherlock said hurriedly, his eyes widening. “It’s ten past.”

John’s heart leapt in his chest.

Fear pumping through his blood, he rushed over to his discarded jeans and dug out his phone to find his inbox crammed full of messages, and a flashing icon warning him about missed calls. He scrolled through the names, his friends, some acquaintances, even a few ex-girlfriends. His dad had tried to call him five times. “Shit,” John muttered, wincing as if in pain. He dropped the phone like it burnt his skin. “Fuck. Oh fuck.”

“John,” said Sherlock, reaching out, but John leapt to his feet and toed on his trainers, walking determinedly out of the living room. Sherlock followed. “John, where are you going?”

“I need to think,” John said, voice hoarse.

Sherlock caught him by the wrist and dragged him backwards in a horrible attempt at comfort. “Think here.”

John fixed him with an icy glare. “Get off me,” he said, like it was a threat. Sherlock just yanked him closer, his fingers clenching around John’s upper arm. “I need to go, Sherlock!”

“You need to stop running whenever something stressful happens,” Sherlock insisted. “You'd make a terrible doctor.”

“Oh, fuck you,” swore John, tugging his arm out of Sherlock’s grip. He was on the verge of crying, emotions raw from what had just happened. It was still sinking in. Everyone knew about his relationship with a man who had a ‘terrible habit’ of sleeping with his students. John felt his insides clench. He wanted to throw up.

Sherlock saw things a little differently. “I see,” he said coldly. “You're still upset about learning that you're not the only person in the world I've ever slept with.”

“It's not that.” John shook his head. “You know it's not that.”

 Sherlock was lost, throwing accusations at John in a blind attempt at finding out what the problem was. “You think I don’t care about you, when I’ve shown you time and time again that I do.”

John threw his hands up in the air, giving up. He moved to leave.

Sherlock followed. With frightening speed, he moved ahead of John, slamming the door shut so that it banged loudly against the hinges like a gun going off. John startled, and Sherlock gripped him by the forearms, spinning him around and pressing his back against it. “Don’t go,” he said throatily. Up close his eyes were frantic, desperately clinging to John like he was the last thing he had left. John pushed back, but Sherlock was stronger. Sherlock was always stronger.

“Get off me,” John said, glowering, biting out each word very slowly. Sherlock was unmoved.

“Stay,” he persisted.

“You’re cutting off my blood supply,” John said seriously, and Sherlock stepped back, quietly furious but also worryingly determined. John rubbed at his arms, red-faced. “Don’t follow me home,” he said, just in case.

“I won’t follow you,” said Sherlock carefully. He stared at John’s arms with something like horror, then at his own hands, fingers splayed wide. “I … didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” said John. “Just don’t do it again.”

He stepped away from the door, and Sherlock opened it for him, like a porter, terrifyingly polite. “John,” he said quickly, and John paused at the top of the stairs. “Do you remember when you said you didn’t like the idea of me at my worst?”

John turned to look at him, fingers clutching on the handrail, and nodded faintly.

Sherlock stared at him. “That was it, just then,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I just panicked because I thought you were going to leave me.”

“That’s not an excuse,” John told him, and Sherlock quickly nodded.

“I know.”

John took a careful breath. “Okay,” he said simply. Then he walked down the stairs on slightly watery legs, his mind whirling. He needed to go home, to talk to his friends, to Sarah. He needed to think things through without Sherlock around.

When John opened the front door, a silver car was positioned outside, the engine running. John eyed it with suspicion, and sure enough, as he approached, the blacked-out window at the back rolled down to reveal a soft faced man with smooth features and dangerously intelligent grey eyes. The man smiled an insincere smile that automatically put John on his guard. “Good evening, Mr Watson.”

John recognised the voice with a rather vivid flashback to when he’d hidden under Sherlock’s desk, but he was too worn and tired to be surprised. “Mycroft.”

Mycroft Holmes’ smile widened. “I do apologise for the way we first met,” he said in oily tones. “Quite undignified.” His eyes swept over John, taking in Sherlock’s clothing, and the smile tightened somewhat. But John’s patience had run dry already.

“Well, I’ll be off,” his voice cheery with fake chipperness.

Mycroft arched a soft eyebrow to communicate how insulted he was at the façade. “I’ll give you a lift home,” he offered. “St John’s Street, isn’t it?”

It would be like climbing into a shark’s mouth and asking for a lift back to the beach. John frowned. “No thanks,” he said, a little unnerved at how Mycroft had been reading up on him. “Goodnight.”

There was a bang from behind John, and Sherlock stood by the door to 221B, glaring at Mycroft with venom. Mycroft’s returning smile was falsely polite, although somehow no less vicious. “Ah, Sherlock,” he said in a clipped voice. “You’d be pleased to learn that the university has finally fired you. I did warn you.”

John gaped, but Sherlock didn’t visibly react. “I don’t care,” he snapped. “Leave John alone.”

“I was only offering the poor thing a lift home,” Mycroft said soothingly, and John’s face flushed red.

“Stop interfering.”

Mycroft seemed unpleasantly surprised. “You really do like this one, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “I hope he’s worth it. It cost you your job.”

Sherlock said nothing. He didn’t move when Mycroft swung open the door and got out of the car, an umbrella tapping by his feet like a cane, but he straightened his back. Mycroft was slightly taller than Sherlock. They started to bicker, about the university losing face, about Sherlock’s unemployment, and maybe they’d started to argue about John. But by then John had walked several streets away as quickly as possible, head tucked down, avoiding puddles. At some point during his and Sherlock’s argument, it had stopped raining. It was something for which he was quietly grateful.

He hailed down the first taxi he saw, and got a ride back home.


	7. Chapter 7

"Here, here!"

John hurriedly unbuckled his seat belt with fumbling fingers as the taxi rolled to a stop outside his flat. The driver twisted around with a creak of material, wordlessly requesting his payment. John swallowed nervously.

"I've got to go inside," he said, wincing as the predictable scowl crawled across the driver's features. "I'll pay you, I just haven't got any cash on me."

John was treated to a very searching, suspicious look, but he must have looked innocent, because eventually the driver sighed and acquiesced, shutting the taxi off and undoing his own seat belt. "Alright," the man muttered gruffly. "But I'm coming with you."

"Thank you!" said John, and he slipped out of the car and dashed over to the front door, tapping on it with the knuckles of both hands. He waited, agitated, as the driver slowly huffed and followed, pausing a few feet behind John at the foot of the stairs. John shot him an apologetic smile with teeth clenched tightly together, and knocked again, just a little harder. A car drove by in a flash of orange and red, and John remembered Sherlock by the fireplace, cocking his head like he was planning exact angles and pressures, pale eyes glimmering as his soft lips pressed over John's. Clenching his eyes shut, John resisted the strong urge to smash his fist into the front door.

Taking a stumbling step back, John glanced up and caught a glimpse of Sarah's face at the window directed towards him. She vanished behind her curtains, and John's heart sank until he heard the measured footsteps as she trailed downstairs. The door swung open, and a mussy haired Sarah stood there in her pyjamas, holding out John's wallet. She'd seen the taxi driver.

John paid up, and as the taxi started up and drove off into the night, he walked unsteadily inside, avoiding Sarah's gaze even as she walked beside him. He didn't want to see what she was thinking.

"John," Sarah said softly, and John turned away, slamming the front door shut and slumping full body against it, the hard wood at his back the only thing holding him up. He shut his eyes in something like fear as he thought of Sarah's face when she saw that photo, as he thought of what would happen today as night turned into morning and students and teachers woke and checked their email, as he thought of Sherlock, always Sherlock, Sherlock who'd gotten him into this mess and who had lied to him, maybe not directly but it was still a lie to withhold things like that. John had given Sherlock everything. What did he have to show for it?

Sarah moved in front of him, John heard the swish of her cotton pyjamas, smelt the faint trace of her sweet smelling shampoo. She pressed a hand over his own, and when John opened his eyes he could see her face was screwed up with worry. No judgement, no disdain. John blinked, confused, as her hand tightened over his. She wanted to talk, that much was obvious. But John felt cornered in the narrow hallway.

Sarah's eyes widened in askance as John pushed up from the doorway and slipped past her, stomping up the narrow staircase to his bedroom. He kicked off his sodden trainers, shutting the door behind him with a click. He didn't lock it. If she wanted to talk, she could do it in his space.

His bed spread out in front of him, invitingly comfortable in his stark little room. John wiped a hand over his eyes, then crawled onto it, curling up against his pillows and drawing his knees to his chest. With a pained exhale, he wrapped his arms around his legs and let his tired head, finally, drop down without resistance.

He wanted to scream. He felt, numb.

Cloistered away a floor above everything, the distant roar of cars was like white noise, drowning everything out. So many things were happening, and so quickly. He'd been outed to his friends and family before he himself had worked out what he was feeling. Exam week started next Monday, exams so important that his future depended on them. But, inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Sherlock.

The man took up too much space in John's head. He remembered Sherlock's academic eyes morphing into a pale passionate gaze, and had to withhold a sob, squeezing his fists together until the skin of his palms hurt.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"John?"

John rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hands, and they came away damp. He sniffed and stared up at the ceiling, taking long, quiet breaths.

"Can I come in?"

John didn't trust himself to speak. Sarah wasn't put off by the lack of response.

"John, you know I'd never judge you. But you can't just lock yourself away like this."

Well, technically he could. But John doubted he'd keep all his friends after this came out. He could already imagine the whispers in tortuous detail, the snide glance over his improving grades, a silent suggestion that he'd earned them the wrong way. Sarah was on his side, and it would be good to keep it that way.

John swung to his feet and paced over to the door, flinging it open to show her he hadn't locked it. Sarah stepped back a little, eyes wide at the look on his face. John tried to speak, but gave up after a tired croak, staring wearily at the floor like he wished it would just swallow him up. Then he peered at her, nodded inwards, and walked back in to sit neatly at the edge of his bed. His hands clenched tightly on his lap, hiding all his tension in two balled fists.

Sarah stepped in and quietly shut the door behind her. She gave him a quick look over, tucking her long hair behind her ear, and then perched next to him. John felt her narrow hand rub over his shoulder and had to repress a flinch. He kept his eyes downcast, focussing on the bit of frayed carpet he could see between his feet.

"I've never seen you like this before," murmured Sarah, squeezing his shoulder, a comforting touch. It was all John needed. He slumped against her, and she instinctively pulled him into an accepting hug, rubbing his back.

John squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," Sarah replied instantly. "You're the kindest, smartest guy I know."

"I should never have done it."

He felt Sarah emphatically shake her head above him. "It's not your fault," she said, determined. "He's the one in the position of power, he's the one who should have stopped it."

"If I'd said no he would have stopped." John had sought Sherlock out as much as the other way around.

Sarah didn't budge. "It was his responsibility, not yours."

John pulled away with a small groan. He let himself fall backwards into his mattress, and Sarah slumped to her stomach beside him, resting her chin on folded arms so that only her nose and eyes were visible, just watching him in case he did something stupid. John rested his arms under his head. "They fired Sherlock, you know."

"So they should!" Sarah retorted instantly. John gave her a reproachful look, and Sarah smiled widely, her eyes glinting. "Oh, John." She snaked her hands over the covers and petted over his hair, like he was some sort of cat. John shut his eyes as her fingers threaded through his fringe. "This is a good thing. You can move on now."

John sighed. He'd thought it would've been easier to think logically about what to do once he was away from Sherlock's strange hold on him. Apparently, he'd been wrong. "I don't want to move on," he admitted. He shifted on the bed, thinking of Sherlock slipping under covers beside him and folding his limbs to make space for John, examining his John's every movement like he was the most important experiment in the world. John remembered innocent things, like Sherlock's smile, his real one, wide and a little intimidating, crooked at the edges, like how John imagined a cat would smile if it were human. "I can't. I wish I could."

His voice sounded broken, and from Sarah's reaction he probably wasn't looking any better. She nervously bit at her bottom lip as she began to catch on to how deep John was in this. "Does … does he know you feel this way?"

John had honestly thought hard about that. Sherlock was alarmingly perceptive in some ways, but he had a tendency to miss things that John saw as obvious. "Maybe he's worked it out," he murmured, shifting his head so Sarah could scratch over his ear. "I don't know. I don't want to love him but I can't help--" He froze. Eyes wide. "… Shit."

That was … unexpected.

Sarah looked like she was about to burst out laughing and gasp in shock. She ended up making a weird breathy noise, and tugged John up the bed so they were lying side by side. "Oh, John," she sighed, her hands in front of her mouth doing little to hide her grin. "You are stupid."

"Biggest idiot ever," John agreed, with a nervous laugh. He scratched at his forehead, blinking hurriedly. "Damn. I really shouldn't have said that."

"Do you mean it?"

John just smiled thinly at her, turning his face further into the pillows. Sarah petted over his arm again, thinking.

"Want to go on my laptop and read all the comments on Facebook?" she teased.

John's groan was muffled by the cotton. "God, no. I'm not quite ready for that." He could already imagine what people were saying, and he knew he couldn't deal with that. Not tonight, not yet. He glanced over at Sarah, suddenly embarrassed at what she, and everyone else, had seen. But Sarah hadn't changed. She looked at him like she always had, even when they'd briefly dated, like a trusted friend. He needed that support right now. "Look," John started, his mouth suddenly dry. "Could you … I know this is a bit of an ask, but could you …" He licked his lips. "… could you stay?" It was like he was admitting a weakness. "I don't want to be alone right now."

But Sarah just smiled, and nodded, her hair brushing against the pillow. "Of course, babe," she hushed. "Come on."

They crawled under the covers and Sarah nestled against him, shutting her eyes as she rested her head. Her face was so serene in relaxation that John himself felt calmer, along with a feeling of fondness for her. All the overwhelming rush of the previous evening was somehow dimmed, and this new day, where John would have to face up to what Jim had unleashed on everyone in a few hours, seemed suddenly very far away.

It was like an off switch.

He barely remembered the dream once he'd woken up, like a faded memory, but living through it had been terrifyingly vivid. He'd watched from afar, an invisible ghost as the things he'd done with Sherlock played out in front of him like a theatre production, with John's face blurred until he could have been anyone. Then it was other student's faces, kissing Sherlock in empty laboratories and ripping the white coat from his body, stretched out over Sherlock's desk and barely avoiding a toxic experiment as they enthusiastically clambered over each other. Then, soft lit and fuzzy, a lovestruck Jim in Sherlock's bed, smiling with sharp little teeth as Sherlock leant over him and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, stroking a clever long-fingered hand down Jim's narrow waist, and then under the covers--

John awoke to a sharp snap at his window. He blinked, bleary eyed, thinking he'd imagined it until the sound repeated and forced him into wakefulness. Sarah murmured sleepily beside him, her hair spilling over his arm as she shifted, but otherwise undisturbed as he carefully pulled away from her warmth. He rolled out of bed, bare feet on the cold carpet. It was two in the morning.

The snap repeated, louder this time, and this time John saw it. Someone was throwing bits of rock at his window.

John awoke as quickly as he would have had someone tossed cold water over him. Alert, he padded over to the window and peered out into the streets to see a dark figure standing on the empty streets, tall and gaunt, a long arm already reaching back in preparation to throw as his face twisted in determination. Sherlock.

Sherlock was here at his house.

It was like something out of a nightmare. John pinched himself, heart thudding faster in his chest in panic as he thought of who else Sherlock might have woken up. God, but this was the last thing he needed.

John shivered, and slid open the window as quietly as possible. Sherlock's gloved hands dropped back down to his sides. He was dressed the same as John had left him, with his long wool coat and blue scarf to shield off any cold, a bag slung over his shoulder. His breath spiralled up into the air as he breathed, and his determined expression hadn't changed. There was little chance of a taxi at this time of night. He must have walked, or run, from Baker Street.

"Let me in!" he called out, far too loudly for John's liking.

John leant a little further out the window into the biting early morning breeze with his arms crossed over his chest to keep as warm as possible. "You said you wouldn't follow me!" he whispered, furious.

Sherlock wasn't amused. He stalked closer, ignoring John's frantic waving for him to stay back, glowering up at him with his haughty frown. "I am sick of you running off whenever things get difficult!" he ranted at a normal volume. "Come down and talk to me!"

John wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's theatrics. "Go away!" he hissed, and slid the window shut. He took a deep breath, and stepped away from the window, but startled and jumped as another loud snap cracked behind his ear. Sherlock had thrown another rock just as John turned away. Scowling, John yanked open the window again. "This isn't as romantic as you think it is," he muttered.

Sherlock seemed to count this as a victory, perking up again. "I refuse to leave until you come down," he said loudly, and John turned red.

"Shut it!" he whispered, panicked. "You'll wake everyone up!"

"I really don't care, John."

"I care," John retorted.

A flash of guilt swum over Sherlock's pale face, and he was momentarily silenced. John hovered awkwardly by the window, unsure if he was meant to say something or not as Sherlock stared at his feet and apparently scrolled through his thoughts. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper. "Come down, then," he offered, sincere. "I'll be quiet, I promise."

Instinctively, John turned to ask Sarah, but she was fast asleep, her breathing slow and measured. What would she have said anyway? John couldn't imagine. He stared out the window at Sherlock, who was waiting, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.

John struggled with his conscious for a brief moment. He knew he shouldn't go down to the madman waiting at his doorstep. That was the logical answer. They were in enough mess already, and this could only add to it. No point to it. Don't do it.

He clutched onto the windowsill and tightened his lips. "Give me a minute," he said eventually. The words came out in a rush. "And don't throw any more rocks."

Sherlock held up his empty hands in surrender, a smirk spreading over his features.

John slid the window shut and grinned silently at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief. Sherlock was impossible.

He tugged his curtains shut and silently dashed over to his wardrobe, grabbing his gym trainers because his decent shoes hadn't dried yet. Sarah had left his jacket over the desk chair, neatly folded, with his house keys in the pocket. He picked it up, buttoning it shut over Sherlock's clothes as he peered out the window. Sherlock's dark shape had moved unnervingly close to the front door, eyes fixed on the door knob. John cast a nervous glance over at Sarah, but she seemed completely out of it. He was, for now, safe.

He moved as quietly as possible down the stairs, hands clenched over his keys so they wouldn't jingle. Sherlock's outline was visible in the small frosted window on the door, illuminated by streetlamps. It remained motionless as he pulled open the door, very slowly, and peeked out into the cold morning to see Sherlock gazing down at him. He seemed to think he was being invited inside, because he pushed at the door like he owned it. John stopped it with a foot.

"You're not coming in," he whispered harshly.

Sherlock smirked at him through the five inch gap John had left for them to talk, faintly amused. He held up the bag he'd been carrying over his shoulder. "This is why I'm here," he rumbled. "Purely innocent, I assure you."

John stepped back, and Sherlock pushed the bag into his hands through the gap. Inside were John's still damp clothes, his phone flashing with messages. With a grimace, John dropped the bag inside and turned back to Sherlock, whose stare past the door was frightening in its intensity, like a predator watching prey. John shook his head. "You said you wouldn't follow me," he said reproachfully.

Sherlock just tilted his head. "I didn't."

"I know you didn't technically dog my footsteps," he ground out through clenched teeth. "But don't pretend you didn't know what I meant."

Sherlock didn't deny it. He seemed eager to move the conversation along, or at least get John back within grabbing distance. "Come outside," he said, in a reasonable tone.

"No," replied John, just to be contrary.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, like John was being an idiot again. He gestured over John's clothing. "You have your jacket on, and your shoes. Come outside."

John restrained himself from rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He sighed and stepped out, shutting the door behind him, and although Sherlock moved back the barest step to give him more room they were still crowded on the doorstep. He stared up at Sherlock, weary. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock suddenly looked very serious. "Because I care about you," he said. "And I think what we have could work if we--"

"Shut up," John interrupted in a choked voice. He rubbed a hand over his brow, suddenly exhausted. He hadn't slept in far, far too long. "I thought you hated talking."

"So did I." Sherlock ducked his shoulders a little, bringing himself just a little closer to John's level. John couldn't bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. "And then you came along, and communication suddenly became very important."

John's chest ached, and he shook his head quickly, huffing a deep breath. Sherlock had lied to him, had slept with students that John might have met and not even realised. Their secret was plastered over the internet. People had already been suspicious of John's rising grades, and no doubt accusations would have been made. John might have to have his marks delayed until the staff combed over his grades to see if he'd unfairly awarded any points, another stress on top of an already difficult time of year.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in worry as John blinked miserably off into the distance. "Come walk with me," he suggested with uncharacteristic softness, and John let out a breathless laugh.

"I can't. Not yet."

"There's something important I have to tell you, and I don't want to do it hunched up on your doorstep."

John tensed up. "Tell me tomorrow," he said. "Or the day after that. Or after my exams." He stared up at Sherlock in exasperation. "For god's sake, Sherlock, I've got a lot going on in my life right now without you adding to it."

Sherlock scowled. "Fine," he said shortly. "Okay. This isn't how I wanted to tell you, but …" he broke off and swallowed, staring out onto the road. "I'm leaving England tomorrow. Well, today."

John let out a gasp. "What!?" he exclaimed. "Why?"

Sherlock propped out his arm for John to take in reply. The meaning was simple: he'd talk, if John walked with him. It was sensible, in a way. John didn't want to wake anyone up, and Sherlock got loud when he was excited. Keeping his expression neutral, John locked the door behind him and stomped past Sherlock, down the steps and onto the pavement. He heard Sherlock's low chuckle behind him, the swift tap of his shoes as he trailed after John on long legs.

It was colder than John expected it to be, and his shoved his hands into his pockets as he hastened down the streets. Sherlock strode easily beside him at a loping pace, his coat flapping over his calves, scarf wound warmly around his neck. He kept casting glances at John's disgruntled profile, but so far seemed unwilling to talk.

There was another icy breeze, and John gave up. He walked a little to the side, nudging against Sherlock but still staring determinedly away from him. He heard Sherlock's huff of laughter, and a clever hand sneaked over and tugged John's hand out of his pocket, tucking it under his arm so John pressed against a warm coat. His hold was secure and confident, like it always was. He felt the hidden pressure in Sherlock's form drain away, and when John peered up at him, he could see Sherlock was hiding a smile that twitched at the edges of his mouth.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"It's not far away," replied Sherlock, his eyes bright with glee.

They walked in silence for half an hour until they ended up alongside the Thames, down a pedestrianized embankment with benches and trees buried in the concrete. The view of London at two in the morning was almost supernatural, strangely silent, its lights and buildings reflected in the black ripples of the river like some strange otherworld was just below the surface.

John paused to take it in, unable to help himself, and Sherlock stopped beside him without complaint. But he seemed far more interested in John than the view. John saw him move in his peripheral vision, ducking around to kiss him, but John turned away and shut his eyes to leave Sherlock breathing silently over his skin, his lips inches from John's but unwilling to take what John wasn't ready to give.

He seemed, stung. John moved to the barriers overlooking the river and a now wrong-footed Sherlock stood behind him, wrapping his arms around John ostensibly for warmth, like a living blanket. He rested his cheek against John's ear, silently apologetic. With their heads so close, John imagined he could hear Sherlock's great mind whirring.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "Everything's different now."

Sherlock hugged him a little tighter. "I'm the same person," he insisted.

"I didn't know you, then."

"You think lesser of me?"

John wearily shook his head, glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face. He stared blankly over the dark water as Sherlock nuzzled at John's hair, his breath hot. "I've got lots of questions," he said, and felt Sherlock tense around him.

"What would you like to know?" His voice came out smoothly, like he wasn't at all bothered by interrogation, but the unnatural stiffness through his figure betrayed him. John's mind went into a whirl.

What do I mean to you? Why do you keep following me? Why are you leaving me?

Do you love me?

John stared evenly ahead, and asked in a steady voice: "Why students?"

As if exhausted, Sherlock let out a long exhale. He unwrapped himself from John and joined him by the barrier looking over the river, his gloved hands resting on the stone. When John stole a glance at him, he looked troubled, apparently finding it difficult to speak. Perhaps he'd never spoken about it before.

After an overlong pause, Sherlock started talking to the stone between his hands. "They're easy to control," he said slowly. "It's a relationship with an end point, and entirely on my terms." He broke off with a sigh, haggard, but at John's questioning gaze continued. "I used to find relationships, even casual ones, extremely difficult to maintain, but a student is easy. I can take what I want and they think I'm perfect, and that they're lucky to be with me. When they stop taking my classes, I break it off and pay them with good grades if they so wish."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Sherlock," he said with a choke in his voice. "That's horrible."

Sherlock shrugged. "I never claimed not to be. I warned you countless times that I wasn't a very nice person."

"Firstly, you're wrong. Secondly, what you warn doesn't matter," John persisted. "Just because you admit it, doesn't mean what you did was excusable."

Sherlock lowered his head in silent acquiescence. Then he cleared his throat, meaning to continue. "In all my relationships when I was younger, my partners wanted to change me. You know very well that I have quite an … abrasive personality." He broke off with an insincere smile, like it was a private joke with himself. "And I did it, I suppressed who I actually was, dumbed myself down for people I thought I loved. Being a teacher gave me an authority I'd never been able to express before. It was … refreshing."

And John found that he could sort of understand. But he remembered Jim's distraught expression, his desperate bid for revenge, and Sherlock's excuse fell flat. "You can't use people as part of your therapy."

"I know," said Sherlock bitterly. "It went wrong last year, when Jim grew -well, there's only one word for it- obsessed with me."

Went wrong, like a failed experiment. John felt, for a moment, incredibly vulnerable about his own feelings. Sherlock didn't seem to notice him, staring pensively at the water as he tried to recollect his thoughts. With his pale face the only white thing against his dark clothes and the black river, he looked like something out of a painting.

"What was I to you?" John asked suddenly, unable to stop himself. Sherlock froze, and then met his eyes, scrutinising.

"Past tense?" he asked.

John gulped down a stammer, and continued. "I was just going to be another one, wasn't I?"

Sherlock stared at him, unblinking. Then he turned sharply away, as though embarrassed. "Yes."

John shouldn't have been surprised, but he felt his insides twist painfully as he remembered Sherlock's pursuit of him, ramping up the intensity of each encounter until John, who had never even kissed a man a few months ago, was quite happy to be shagged senseless over Sherlock's desk during office hours. He must have look more distressed than he thought, because Sherlock looked thrown by his reaction and was quick to speak again.

"Surely you know by now the depth of my feelings for you?"

John found it difficult to swallow, blinking up at Sherlock. "No," he said weakly. "No I don't."

"No-one's ever--" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and shook his head firmly. "John, I don't think you understand. I can be myself around you. I usually have to act, constantly, so people won't react badly. You've seen the real me, and you don't make your excuses and run, you come back." His voice softened. "I'm not used to that."

John resisted the urge to reach out to him. "Did people usually leave for good?"

Sherlock shrugged like it didn't matter, but John didn't have to be an expert at observation to see how painful these memories were to Sherlock. "They found me difficult," he said simply. "I understood that the only common denominator in these situations were my own actions, so I tried to change. But I find it difficult to dampen myself down for long periods of time."

"You shouldn't have to," John said passionately, and Sherlock smiled briefly at his vehemence.

"You don't realise what it meant to me when you came back after that argument. I thought I'd driven you off for good."

John couldn't help being shocked. "Sherlock, it was just an argument. Just because a couple realise that they have flaws and don't agree with each other about everything, doesn't meant the relationship is over. That's when it's just starting."

Sherlock observed him carefully, as if making notes in his head, the way he always did when John did something he found interesting. "I've had an unusual dating life," he said, by way of explanation. "I was extrapolating from what happened in my previous relationships to predict what you would do with me, yet you differed in every respect." He said it like John had done something remarkable, and with a touch of pride. "You were right, earlier. We're not just teacher and student. We're just two people who met in very unusual circumstances."

John felt a little warmer.

"Mycroft disagrees," Sherlock continued.

"What's the deal with Mycroft?"

Sherlock took a slow breath, as if preparing himself for something. "He's my older brother by seven years."

"It's just …" John wasn't sure how to put it politely. "You seem to really hate each other."

Sherlock chuckled, and shook his head. "It seems that way, doesn't it? But no, I don't hate him. I just don't miss him when he's not around, meddling."

John tilted his head, and Sherlock straightened up a little.

"He's my self-appointed protector and imprisoner. When our mother died, he inherited everything. He was entrusted with protecting the Holmes property and assets. To Mycroft, I am one of those precious assets." He accentuated asset like it was a bitter word on his tongue. "I was a rather directionless youth. Nothing appealed to me about the future, and I had a tendency to self destruction. Mycroft pulled me out of the admittedly terrible situation I'd gotten myself into, and found me work at the university he's involved in as part of his job in the government. I never wanted to be a teacher, but he refused to support me unless I took the job."

John was a little disturbed. It seemed they both had their fair share of controlling family members.

"I found it interesting at times," Sherlock continued. "I had access to laboratories and chemicals for my own experiments, and there were the occasional students who made teaching worthwhile."

It seemed wrong to John that Sherlock would disparage his achievements so easily. "You're one of the best lecturers in the country, Sherlock,"

Sherlock shrugged, uninterested.

"That really doesn't mean anything to you?" John couldn't understand.

"I've given up years of my life in this job," Sherlock retorted. "I resent it. I did stupid things to make the administration hate me, but Mycroft always managed to smooth things over with them. I didn't bother with social niceties. I brought body parts into my office, and did experiments there even though I was right next to any laboratories. I stole equipment and chemicals. I was sharp with both pupils and staff. All that happened was I grew a reputation of being frightening and eccentric." He jerked his head to the side, dark curls falling over his forehead as he stared down into the river.

John's heart ached for him, although he didn't fully understand Sherlock's antipathy. Cautiously, he pressed his hand over Sherlock's gloved one, and squeezed. "You should've quit," he said quietly.

"I grew accustomed to the luxuries," Sherlock admitted, softer now. "But deep down, yes, I've always wanted to. He was very interested in you, you know."

John was thrown by the change in subject. He hadn't been expecting that. "Why?" he asked, a little afraid. Sherlock twisted his hand so that they were pressed palm to palm, skin and warm leather. His eyes darted open to John's, glimmering, as if deep in contemplation.

"I rarely grow attached," he murmured.

John was momentarily transfixed. "What do you mean when you say you're leaving?" he asked, after a pause.

Sherlock's gaze grew distant, settling somewhere over John's shoulder. "I'm to leave England for a year. Mycroft is pulling the last strings of his influence in my favour to have me teaching around Europe, but I think I'll assume an alias and divert to Asia."

A year, John thought. A whole year. Sherlock hadn't finished talking, and he forced himself to listen.

"It's also to separate me from you. He says the power imbalance in our relationship is unhealthy." Sherlock bit out the last words in an alarmingly good impression of Mycroft's accent. He glanced cautiously at John. "During our time together, you've never felt … abused, have you?" He asked it delicately, like it was something he'd been mulling over for a while. Perhaps Mycroft had put the thought in his head.

"I wouldn't have stuck around if I had," John reassured him.

Sherlock looked relieved. "A not entirely small fear of mine has been that you only stayed because you were afraid I would fail you out of spite for leaving me," he admitted.

"I never got the impression that you'd do that," John said honestly. "You've been good to me. Great, actually. I …" he ducked his head. "I like being around you."

Sherlock's smile suggested the feeling was mutual. "It will be difficult to remain in contact," he said, tracing his fingers over John's palm. "I suspect he'll do his best stop any phone calls or emails from reaching the recipient. No guarantee he'll manage, but it pays to be cautious." John wasn't so certain. How could they wait a year without speaking? Sherlock seemed to read his expression. "There are other methods of communication."

"Smoke signals?" suggested John with a teasing smile.

"Quite difficult over oceans, I imagine, although I admit that I haven't experimented." Sherlock's fingers had moved up from John's palm to massage gentle circles over his wrist. "I was going to be more practical and suggest letters."

John was dubious. "If he can stop an email, he can stop letters."

Sherlock looked quietly pleased with himself. "Only if I use the postal service."

"Messages in a bottle?"

"Of a sort," Sherlock said, a smirk teasing at the edge of his lips. "I have various acquaintances who will deliver things for me. I'll leave instructions for you on how to reply."

John didn't have Sherlock's reckless confidence, so he felt a twinge of fear for how he'd handle the future. University culture was primed to spread information, and he was going to be alone for the fallout of this whole scandal. Between social networking, gossip, and the student run magazine that scooped up invasive stories like an amateur tabloid, John had a feeling he was going get very used to Jim's photo of them. Sherlock would be gone, running from his brother across Asia, unaffected as John's world changed around him. And now he wanted John to wait for him, with only letters between them for a whole year.

"We'll be apart for longer than I've known you," John pointed out.

Sherlock looked struck, like John had hurt him. "I'd wait longer," he asserted.

John considered him carefully, pulling his wrist from Sherlock's hand and folding his arms. "Do you actually mean that?"

"I mean it."

"It's just …" John found it difficult to hold Sherlock's stare. "You can't just throw those sorts of words around."

Sherlock was unblinking. "I know," he said, like it was a promise.

He was too much. John turned away and rubbed at his eyes, clutching his arms tighter around himself and staring out into the water. It was just as dark as when he'd woken up. Dawn, and the new day that John would have to spend being the subject of jokes and whispers, wasn't for another few hours. He sniffed, and squinted his eyes shut. Sherlock waited in silence by his side, only roused into speaking when John started shivering.

"You're cold," he observed.

"I'm fucking freezing," John laughed, and he rubbed at his upper arms. It had been easier when he was walking. There was a flurry of movement to his side, and John turned to see Sherlock tugging off his coat and sweeping it open like a matador. "Sherlock?" John protested, but Sherlock just shushed him and draped it over John's shoulders, using the lapels to draw him around.

"Arms," he said evenly, like he was used to dressing people. John obeyed, snug in the wool coat that was still warm from Sherlock's body, and he couldn't hold back his smile as Sherlock ducked close to adjust the collar, eyes darting over John's body. In all the time John knew him, Sherlock had never seemed to feel the cold. Perhaps he was just good at hiding it. "It's a little big on you," he observed, highly amused.

"Just a little," agreed John, his fingers poking out the edge of the cuffs. He shoved his hands into the pockets to find them full of little stones, which he brought out. He stared up at Sherlock from under his eyebrows.

"I didn't know if there'd be any suitable rocks by where you lived," Sherlock explained. "I wasn't going to start breaking windows, but I needed to wake you up."

John dropped them into the river one by one. "This is a lot of rocks, Sherlock."

"I erred on the side of caution. I'd rather have multiple attempts at waking you up than risk your fury if I broke something." Sherlock seemed quite happy just watching John, perhaps enjoying the fact that John was pretty much entirely dressed in his clothes.

"How did you know which window was mine?" John asked. "You could have woken the wrong person."

Sherlock scoffed. "I could see the poster through your window of that band you insisted I listen to on our walk around Regent's Park. Your left window was the one more used and opened, suggesting a left-handed owner. Everything I could see was very well organised, which is your natural tendency. Your curtains--"

"Alright," grinned John, holding up his hands. "You knew my window."

A satisfied half smile curled up Sherlock's lips, and he squared his shoulders. "Come on," he said fondly. "I'll walk you home."

John shook his head, stepped closer.

Sherlock's eyes went wide, and he inhaled sharply when John trailed his fingers down a pale cheek, confused. "John," he muttered softly, bowing his head when John tugged at his neck so he could kiss him neatly on the mouth. A soft pressure of lips, and then they stayed close, neither willing to move away first. Sherlock's eyes were alive, darting over John's face as if in hope of reading his mind. "You forgive me?

"Not yet," John said, eyes dipping to the blue of Sherlock's scarf. Sherlock stared down at him, his lips slightly parted. His hands slid under the coat to press firmly over the small of John's back, holding him close as John idly petted over the soft scarf. "When are you going?"

"I have an early flight in four hours," Sherlock replied. "Obviously I'm not meant to be here, but I wasn't going to be so cruel as to disappear without explanation."

John had barely gone a few days without seeing Sherlock, barely gone hours without texting him. He wasn't sure he could last a year. "I don't want to leave you like this," he said clearly, blinking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock, of course, picked up on his meaning straight away. "Mycroft is at my flat, unfortunately."

"Well, we can't go to mine."

Sherlock frowned over John's head, lips softly crinkling together. John resisted the urge to kiss them again, even as his mind warred with him. In a few hours, Sherlock would be gone. The memory of their time together would quickly fail. John had seen enough long distance relationships fall apart from lack of communication, and what Sherlock was suggesting was going to be even harder. He even wouldn't see his face, hear his voice, for a whole year, and what about Sherlock? Surely Sherlock, who craved new experiences like a junkie, would soon grow tired of a ball and chain waiting for him in England.

Sherlock interrupted his thoughts with a delighted grin, eyes wide like he'd solved something difficult. "I have an idea," he said gleefully, moving past John, his hand slipping from John's waist to latch onto his hand. John was jerked into movement beside him, trotting along to keep up.

"What?" he asked breathlessly. "Where?"

"Come, John!" Sherlock called, and he raced off down the streets of London.

His gloved hand clasped firmly over John's, who was doing his best to keep up with Sherlock's long-legged stride, puffing and panting. There were few cars and no taxis at this time in the morning. Sherlock ducked down various dodgy looking alleys as he ran north in as straight a line as possible, and if it weren't for their hands almost glued together, John would have been outrun pathetically easily. He did his best, though, the heavy coat flapping like bird wings behind him, and he had to keep tugging at the lapels to stop it slipping from his shoulders.

"Why are we running?" he wheezed.

Sherlock turned around to glance at him for a second, his eyes bright and burning. "You idiot, isn't it obvious? When we get there, I want to spend as much time with you as possible."

John really shouldn't have found that romantic.


	8. Chapter 8

Their feet stomped through dark puddles on near empty streets as they ran, panting breaths clouding the air. John felt like his lungs were going to burst, choking down oxygen and keeping his eyes focussed on Sherlock's determined figure and their hands wound so tightly, leather and skin. Sherlock yanked him up a little staircase and into a nondescript hotel, a bell ringing out over their heads until the door slammed shut behind them. They collapsed against a grey wall, nearly giggling up at the ceiling as they fought to catch their breath.

"As soon as I even suggest getting off with you--" John laughed, once he could speak again. Sherlock chuckled lowly, drawing up their connected hands up on a whim and fervently pressing a kiss over John's knuckles before dropping it to pull off his gloves.

"I move quickly with the right motivation."

John sighed with a smile, and leant his head back on the wall. His brows lowered in confusion. "Where are we?"

"Didn't I say?" Sherlock reached over to push his gloves in the coat pocket, smirking down at John. "I know the owner here."

John pursed his lips. "So, a free night in a dodgy hotel?"

"It's not dodgy," Sherlock scoffed.

"I don't understand how you get all these favours."

"He's involved in some underground poker tournaments. High stakes." Sherlock's eyes glimmered, and John wondered if he'd ever been tempted by gambling before. "I helped him figure out how one of the men was cheating them out of thousands."

There was a rustle, and Sherlock swivelled around. He moved out of sight down the hallway, leaving John standing awkwardly by the front door. A low voice happily bellowed out. "Sherlock!"

"Hello Marcus," said Sherlock.

"My good friend," Marcus replied jovially. John took a few cautious steps down the corridor to see Sherlock grimacing through a hug like it was torture. "What can I do for you at such a wretched hour? Need a place to lie low?"

Sherlock extracted himself from Marcus's rather strong looking arms, dusting down his jacket. "Something like that."

And then, Marcus saw John, and his sharp eyes lit up over a toothy grin. John smiled back, but it was stretched, daring him to make a comment. "Nice coat," was all Marcus said, and he turned back to Sherlock with a dirty grin. "I'm pretty full tonight. Unless … are you triskaidekaphobic?"

"Of course not," sniffed Sherlock. "How illogical."

Marcus rolled his eyes and ducked behind the reception desk to grab the only remaining set of keys. He chucked them at the back Sherlock's head, whose hand flung out and snatched them from the air without even looking, storing them in his pocket in one smooth movement. Marcus laughed like he'd seen it before, and his grin grew wider. "Have fun, boys. And maybe call ahead next time? The missus hates waking up at three in the morning."

"I shall keep your suggestion in mind for the future," Sherlock said, and he caught hold of John by the crook of his elbow and dragged him to the rooms.

It was small, shabby and dimly lit, but neither of them cared. Sherlock slammed the door shut, locked it, and rounded on John, twisting his fingers through the lapels of the coat to pull him in for a deep kiss. John yielded to the now familiar slide of lips, then the hungrily searching tongue that somehow sent his entire body into tremors, his mind the whole while repeating a single thought, _one year, one year, one whole fucking year without you._

How could he do it? Sherlock had broken him, John couldn't imagine life without him, couldn't conceive of settling down into a relationship with someone that wasn't Sherlock. It seemed, wrong.

Sherlock moved him under the dim light for a better look. He thumbed the material of his coat, popping the collar around the back of John's neck and smoothing his fingers over it. "I love how you're dressed in all my things," he murmured, and John smiled as his earlier guess was proven correct. "I won't deny that it's a fantasy of mine to keep you, dress you, feed you, until the only thought spinning around that little head of yours is me. Just me, forever."

John decided not to tell him that he was in danger of thinking little else already. "I should probably be worried by that," he said instead, licking his lips thoughtfully.

"You're not?" Sherlock said, with the crooked, real smile that John had saved to memory since the moment he first saw it

"Nope," he said sweetly, and rolled his shoulders to drop the coat into a dark pile on the floor. Without any more explanation, he shoved a surprised Sherlock onto the bed with a bounce of squeaky springs. Sherlock made a huffing noise at he hit the mattress, and remained still where he had landed, splayed triumphantly over the bed and gazing brightly up at John with eyes that followed his every movement. It was like he was memorising something.

"That's quite nice, actually, being shoved around," he said, his voice low and teasing. "I can see why you like it so much."

John discarded his own jacket, toed off his trainers, and flopped onto the bed beside Sherlock, who peered up at him. "Shut up," John said, deftly sliding Sherlock's scarf from around his neck and tossing it away. "Or I will discipline you."

Sherlock seemed to perk up. "How terrifying," he drawled, tilting his chin up as he grinned. "What would that involve, exactly?"

John laughed and rolled to his stomach, pulling himself partially over Sherlock to press another kiss to his mouth. "You don't want to know."

"Oh, but I do," Sherlock purred up at him, eyelids lazily dipping as he scanned over John's face.

It was there, draped over Sherlock and giving in to breathy kisses, that John decided to forget about what would be happening in a few hours and focus entirely on the present. His heart raced with the promise of Sherlock in his arms, deceptively submissive, happy to lie flat on his back and let John touch and taste where he pleased, but their was something dangerous in his eyes. The sinewy hand at the nape of John's neck was beginning to grip rather than caress.

Sherlock's next kiss was passionate and greedy. He started persistently tugging at John's clothes until John growled and removed himself from Sherlock's mouth with a pop of wet lips. He sat back and yanked the jumper ungracefully over his head, his face still tangled in wool when he heard Sherlock pull his jacket and shirt over his shoulders and toss them carelessly to the floor. Then he was abruptly grabbed and bundled onto his back against the pillows, with a determined Sherlock throwing the jumper John had barely pulled off in time aside.

He descended on John's mouth again in a manner that was almost decadent, sliding his tongue hotly against John's as his hands groped luxuriantly over newly accessible flesh. He palmed over John's chest and stomach until John was shaking with desire, his skin tingling as strong hands left invisible prints over his torso, gasping as a thumb flicked over a nipple. He'd never been touched like this, not before Sherlock, and when the touches stopped, John reached out and grabbed blindly at him, holding him close. "Sherlock," he breathed, shocking himself with how needy he sounded, but Sherlock easily pushed his grip away with a quickly hidden smirk.

"Patience," he murmured, and belied his own words by pulling off John's trackpants and underwear with a forceful yank. John hissed in a breath, and Sherlock almost purred with delight at the sight of John spread out beneath him. "Perfect," he murmured quietly, as if to himself, running a thoughtful forefinger down the length of John's erection. John moaned, first softly, and then loud and in shock as Sherlock sank down and then his _mouth_.

"Oh my god," John cried helplessly as lips and tongue worked over him, sliding up and down with an impossibly blissful suction as John grasped at sheets in a desperate bid not to tug at Sherlock's hair. The attempt at politeness didn't last long. John dug his hands through Sherlock's curls, gripped at the back of his head, scratched at the hands that groped over his hips and thighs as Sherlock took him deeper, and deeper, and -- "Stop!" John begged him. "Please, I can't hold on, please--"

Sherlock obeyed and pulled off of John with a gasp for oxygen, laughing breathlessly to himself. He crawled up to lie beside John, and John clung to him, shaking, his cock brushing the fabric of Sherlock's trousers and sending sparks of pleasure down his spine with every movement. "Not yet?" Sherlock asked, and John shook his head with a panicked look on his face. Sherlock chuckled and pressed a kiss to his temple.

When John got his breathing under control, they started again. Sherlock sprawled against the pillows as John straddled him, leaning down to grant increasingly wet kisses as he rubbed frantically against Sherlock's body.

"Oh for -- ahh, John!" Sherlock hissed. "Off me, I need to --" John slipped to the side as Sherlock undid his trousers and pulled out his straining cock with a sigh of pleasure and a flutter of his dark eyelashes, giving it a few luxurious strokes and tilting his head to the ceiling, exposing the slender line of his white throat.

"Hel _lo_ ," said John teasingly, watching the clever workings of his fingers.

"Get over here," Sherlock growled, reaching down to tug at John's leg, guiding John over him again and sliding a possessive hand down the line of his body to end up curled loosely over both their cocks. "You," Sherlock said to an entranced John. "Get yourself ready." His pale hand shifted over both of them and the sight alone was enough to make John stutter.

"I haven't got anything," he panted, his cheeks hot. He was probably embarrassingly flushed. Sherlock smirked innocently up at him, moving his hand with carefully aimed pressure in a way that had John whimpering.

"Trouser pocket."

Sure enough, there was a little lump under John's thigh, and he managed to extract a tube of water based lube from Sherlock's pocket.

"Here," said Sherlock, and he drizzled it on his palm and rubbed it over both of them until he had John practically writhing in his hands, letting out wordless gasps of pleasure. "You seem rather distracted," Sherlock mused. "Should I do it for you?" John clutched tighter as Sherlock snaked dripping fingers behind his hips to press at his hole.

"Oh god," John pleaded, his head dropping to Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock gently twisted two fingers deep into him, a tiny, intimate stretch, his hand the whole while working over their cocks at a measured pace. "Fuck, yes," he hissed, twisting his hips. "I'm ready, I'm ready. Fuck, Sherlock, I need you …"

"Do it," Sherlock whispered into his ear in a hiss of warm breath, moving his hands to rest gently on John's waist. " _Ride me_."

The head of his cock nudged against John's hole, the clear, slippery liquid between them making penetration almost too easy. He sank onto the heated flesh, quickly, too quickly, until the stretch was too much to bear and he was gasping up at the ceiling, his thighs trembling to keep himself from sinking any deeper. Sherlock brought him back, his hands stroking over John from shoulder to hip, soothing, relaxing him. "You're too much," John whispered weakly.

"You've done it before." Sherlock stared up at him, his hands resting over the curve of John's arse, thumbs brushing over his hips. "Take it easy, don't hurt yourself."

Pain faded quickly to desire. With a tight gasp, John took him deeper, the satisfying pressure inside him building until Sherlock was completely inside him, twitching, alive.

Sherlock stared up at John like he was something magnificent, his lips parted and wet as he let out harsh breaths, smoothing his hands over John's softly shaking body. "You're perfect," he muttered harshly, teeth almost gritted. His eyes met John's, burning pale, and held them. John braced himself on Sherlock's shoulders and stared resolutely back.

Suddenly he coiled his spine, snake-like, and moved.

"Fuck," Sherlock snarled, guttural, as John grinded himself over Sherlock's cock with rolling twists of his hips. "Yes, John, _yes_." He seemed hypnotised by the slow writhe of John's body under his fingers, gripping painfully hard over John's waist as the pace quickened with a helpless moan. When John started fucking himself with harsh thrusts of his hips, Sherlock all but lost control. He rested his shoulders against the pillows to steady himself as he rhythmically slammed back into John, grunting with the effort of pushing his hips upwards as John smacked back down, the low slap of flesh a pornographic backdrop to their heated moans.

It felt incredible, greedy, even, to take what he wanted from Sherlock this way. Sherlock was ever obedient, sharp eyes following his every movement, changing pace as John did, gripping him, but not guiding him or forcing his movements. There was a tension under his fingertips, though, and John answered to it, gave in to tight pleas of 'more' and 'faster' until he was so sensitive he had to concentrate to keep himself steady, the familiar wave of pleasure beginning to swell.

"Sherlock, I'm going to come," John gasped desperately, biting down too hard on his lip. Sherlock's eyes snapped wide open.

"Together," he insisted, and John cried out in shock as a sweaty hand slipped from his hip to thrust ruthlessly over his cock.

He was insensate to Sherlock's orgasm, so wrapped he was in his own. His hips spasmed over Sherlock's, his toes curling into the sheets as he scratched over Sherlock's chest, crying out in pleasure. He heard Sherlock's voice almost in his head ( _look at me, John_ ) and forced open his eyes to get caught up in Sherlock's wide-eyed gaze, latched on to it, like Sherlock was an anchor to the world around him. He felt too hot, too slick and sweaty, then suddenly overwhelmed by the pulsing heat that rushed up his spine and spread to his fingertips and toes in tingling lines of ecstasy.

They tangled together on the sheets, limbs wrapped to press them chest to chest over the covers, Sherlock's hot breath over his face. He was muttering John's name over and over, like it was a prayer, holding him so close that it was almost crushing. John tilted his head back and their mouths mashed sloppily together, too uncoordinated for tidiness, just desire spelt out in tongue and teeth.

Eventually, the rush faded, and they were left with the sweat quickly cooling on their bodies.

"Covers," said John slowly, like speaking was an effort. Sherlock nodded, and they both crawled under cotton sheets and stretched their aching limbs.

They moved together instinctively, Sherlock on his back and John curled on his side, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. He could see the slow rise and fall of his pale chest, the soft non-sound of his breathing. Sherlock's hand petted aimless strokes over his back, just enjoying the feel of John's skin beneath his fingers. When John glanced up at him, his eyes were closed.

"Sherlock," he said softly, nuzzling his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock hummed lazily in reply, his hand coming to rest over John's waist but otherwise remained unmoving. John thought hard about what to say next. He traced patterns over Sherlock's ribs, mulling over his thoughts. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock leaving, so he looked to the future. "What are you going to do when you come back?"

Sherlock shifted his head, peering curiously down at John. "Hm?"

"I mean, you're probably not going to want be to a lecturer." John creased his brow. "Even if you're allowed."

Sherlock frowned, and resumed his languid stroking over John's skin. "Oh, I don't know," he said, contemplative. "I haven't thought about it."

John leaned his head up, so he could take in Sherlock's expression. "You never wanted to be something when you grew up?"

Sherlock let out a soft sigh, body moving under John's head. "No," he said simply. "Everything seemed so tedious."

It was John's turn to frown. "Right." He didn't want Sherlock to come back to England and fall straight back into dependence. Sherlock deserved his freedom, after so long.

Sherlock's curiosity grew. He sat up, tugging John insistently with him. "What is it?" he asked.

John shifted until he was comfortable, snuggling against Sherlock's arm. "You know that … thing you do," he said hesitantly. "Your hobby."

Sherlock turned away with a tired scowl. "I don't want to join the police John. Goodness, all that paperwork, all those rules and regulations …"

"No," John hurried. "Like, what you did to help Mrs Hudson, and Angelo, and Marcus." Sherlock turned back to him, a hint of interest glimmering in his eyes. "You can help people in ways no-one else can."

"It's not much of a money earner," Sherlock said slowly. He'd obviously thought about it before, but probably talked himself out of it for the security of his university job. "I just do it because I can see a problem I can solve. And, of course, the added bonus of a future favour."

"You could be a private detective," John suggested. "They charge loads."

"It would be boring," Sherlock pointed out. "Excruciatingly so. Endless stakeouts. Following adulterous partners for evidence of secret trysts. I would scratch my eyes out by the end of the week."

John blinked up at him. "What sort of problems do you want to solve?" he asked.

"People problems," replied Sherlock, after a considered pause. "Murders and kidnappings and mysterious incidents. Difficult and unusual cases."

"Maybe you could help the police?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Hm?"

"I've seen your newspaper clippings." John remembered the cupboard full of them, carefully arranged in some sort of system he couldn't make out at first glance, the cases that Sherlock liked keeping track of. "You follow those sorts of stories in the paper."

"Yes, because I have the strong suspicion I could solve them if they let me see the evidence."

"What about that?" John sat up straighter, lightening up. "Offer to help the police when they're in trouble?"

Sherlock was less excited. "The police don't consult amateurs," he said darkly.

"You're not an amateur, Sherlock," John persisted. "You see things no-one sees. I've never heard of anyone, ever, who can do the things you do, you know." Sherlock blinked slowly, seemingly unmoved, so John continued. "It's like when a GP gets a certain case," he said, words spilling out a little too quickly in the face of Sherlock's expectant attention. "They refer them on to the specialist consultant. You could be a consulting detective. When the police are having trouble, they consult you."

That caught Sherlock's interest. They talked about the logistics of such an operation until John was drifting off in Sherlock's arms, politely nodding while trying not to yawn. He could have fallen asleep there, with Sherlock's low voice murmuring in his ear, but he was left cold as Sherlock pulled away to turn off the light and when they wrapped around each other again it was for the express purpose of resting.

"You were talking about cigarette ash," John said sleepily, and Sherlock shushed him, pressing his lips over John's hair.

"Go to sleep," he rumbled, running a hand down John's arm and then pulling him close to rest against him.

"Wake me before you go," John said, tired, but insistent.

"Of course," Sherlock assured him, and John let himself slip into blackness.

He was shaken awake at some stupid hour in the morning, the clouds in the sky outside just beginning to become visible at the edges like they were being slowly dyed a brighter colour. Sherlock loomed over him, dressed fully in his dark regalia, and John was cold in the shabby bed. He had a gloved hand clasped over John's shoulder, and his eyes were wide awake, darting over John with an air of desperation.

"I've got to go," he said clearly, his voice penetrating through John's sleep-drugged head. "My taxi is waiting."

John was suddenly struck with the fear of losing him forever. He had a flashback, like he was dying, starting with the first time he ever laid eyes on the tall dark figure that paced across the lecture theatre like he owned it, then stolen kisses in a crowded office, glances over a sea of faces, their first night together, their last night together, and ending with the pale figure leaning over him with regret tracing the barely visible lines of his forehead, over an otherwise unreadable expression.

John felt suddenly more awake than he'd ever been. "I don't want you to go," he said seriously.

Sherlock flinched. "I'm not doing this to you on purpose," he started, but John interrupted him.

"Kiss me."

He bowed down and they kissed, lips soft and hesitant in the growing light. Sherlock's grip on him was frightening, and if John wasn't well versed in matters of human strength and bone density, he'd be afraid of being broken.

They broke apart, lips wet, and John was seized with an urge to say it, just _say it_.

"Sherlock," he began, "I lo--"

"Stop." Sherlock pressed leather-clad fingers over John's lips, and John shut his mouth with difficulty, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "Don't do this to me," he said harshly.

 _But you're the one leaving,_ John didn't say.

"I'll come back." Sherlock's voice was rough and gravelly, like he had to force the words out of an unwilling throat. "And I'll be independent, and you'll be training in a hospital, and we can be together without any social stigma."

John bowed his head, like it was too heavy to hold up with strength alone, and Sherlock had to slide a hand under his chin to keep him eye-to-eye.

"I'll write to you whenever I can," he said throatily. "The year will pass quicker than you think."

It was like he was trying to give comfort without being comforted by the idea himself, so hesitant were his assurances. John couldn't tell how much Sherlock believed what he was saying. "Please," he begged, overcome with the idea that Sherlock would grow bored waiting for him. "Promise you'll come back to me."

"I promise," Sherlock breathed, and he sealed it with a searing kiss that rendered John helpless in his arms. "I've got to go," Sherlock whispered, pulling away from John with difficulty, and his emotions were usually so opaque but John could tell clearly pained by what he was doing. "I've got to."

"Okay," John said quietly, resisting the mad impulse to wrap himself around Sherlock and physically stop him from leaving. The urge was tremendous. Instead, he lay limply back on pillows as Sherlock swept to the door, opened it as if he meant to storm through and leave, but instead he paused, turned to get one last look of John staring at him from the bed. He looked, conflicted, like what he was having to do hurt him physically. He looked vulnerable.

John found it strangely difficult to breathe.

Then he vanished down the hallway in a sweep of dark coat. The door clicked neatly shut behind him, like he was never there. John spread a searching hand to the sheets beside him, but the bed was long cold. His clothes were neatly folded at the foot of the bed, a last sign of care left for him. John slumped down, boneless and heartbroken. His body ached.


	9. Interlude

As John fell into a fitful sleep in the cramped hotel, a sleek silver car carrying two silent brothers pulled away from 221B Baker Street. Its destination - Heathrow airport.

They travelled in silence down the stretches of road through the still sleeping city, blocks of light swooped across their seated figures like some sort of scanner, highlighting their stillness, their obvious tension each other's presence. Mycroft stared straight ahead, thoughtful, his hands neatly placed on his lap. Sherlock's whole body seemed twisted away from his brother, legs crossed towards the door, arms folded, distant pale eyes directed firmly out of the window as though he regretted something terribly, or had just lost something dear to him.

Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Mycroft spoke first. He turned his stern gaze to Sherlock, his smooth face crumpled in irritation. "Where were you this morning?" he asked. "You could have missed your flight."

Sherlock didn't shift his gaze from the window. "Where do you think?" he replied coolly, partly to wind Mycroft up, partly because it was a pointless question. Mycroft knew perfectly well what Sherlock had been doing.

It worked. Mycroft seemed to swell in his seat, before he exhaled slowly, calmly, and continued. "Do you have any idea what you've done, Sherlock?" he asked. "And not just to me, or our family name. You say you care about him, but don't you see what you've led him into?"

Sherlock stiffened in his seat, like he'd just been caught by searchlight. He remained silent, but to Mycroft, his panic was obvious.

"Now, I don't want you to worry," Mycroft said soothingly. It was the same voice he used when he'd shifted a much younger Sherlock out of the gutter years ago, before Sherlock all but handed his life over for Mycroft to organise. "I'll take care of everything. I've already had the emails deleted, and the internet postings are going down as we speak. You don't need to worry about him."

Sherlock, finally, turned to look his brother straight in the eye. The too-bright flashes from the streetlamps cast Mycroft into an ominous silhouette. It almost hurt to look at him. He glanced down, blinking the kaleidoscope shapes out of his eyes. "I don't want him to think that what we feel for each other is wrong," he admitted.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"I know, technically, it was wrong," Sherlock quickly clarified. "And that it could be considered an abuse of power on my part, but in the end, the relationship we had-"

"You mustn't pin all your hopes to this boy," Mycroft interrupted. At Sherlock's angry reaction he quickly continued. "And he _is_ a boy. He's thirteen years younger than you. That means he'll be changeable, unreliable."

Sherlock glared at him. John was the most thoughtful and stable person he knew. "He told me he loved me," he said rather forcefully, like it was a source of pride.

Mycroft was not impressed. "Most of them loved you, Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock stared back out of the window, his face frozen in a frown. "But I've never returned the sentiment before."

Mycroft paused. Perhaps he was aware of the fact he was treading on difficult ground. "So, you love him."

Sherlock sniffed. "What makes you think I'd tell you if I did?" But he didn't have to say it. From the look on Mycroft's face, he might as well have shouted it.

"He brings out the worst in you," Mycroft said, after a calculated pause.

Sherlock shook his head. "It is the opposite."

"Should I tell him, then, how you had him down as a potential target a few days in from when you first tutored him?" Sherlock froze, and then turned to stare wildly at Mycroft, who arched an eyebrow. "Should I tell him how you deliberately marked him down in his first exam so he would feel obligated to go to dinner with you? You've been manipulating the poor thing since you first met him."

"You're not to go anywhere near him," Sherlock spat violently, his eyes almost murderous. "Don't you dare-"

"I could tell him all sorts of things about you, Sherlock," Mycroft said carefully. "But I won't, because you're my brother and I love you."

Sherlock didn't budge. "Don't touch him, Mycroft, I mean it."

"I don't touch students," said Mycroft with a touch of amusement. "That's your particular vice. Along with drugs and reckless behaviour. You'd be in jail several times over if it weren't for me, Sherlock. I wish you wouldn't forget it."

"I haven't forgotten anything," Sherlock snapped. "And I won't forget _this_ , either"

Mycroft settled back into his seat. He had the air of someone who had just won an argument. "This?" he asked vaguely.

Sherlock's glare was icy. "This pointless exile."

"One year, Sherlock. One year for me to sort this all out and make sure you have a new job waiting for you when you return."

"Don't bother pretending that this is entirely for my benefit," Sherlock retorted.

"I never said it was," Mycroft interrupted. "You're my brother, Sherlock. What you do affects how others see me. This is as much self-preservation as it is trying to make sure you do the right thing."

They were nearing the airport, and Sherlock seemed to shrink into himself as they zoomed past the numerous signs. Beside him, Mycroft glanced over a neatly printed itinerary and handed a copy to Sherlock. "Your flight will arrive in Paris at seven o'clock, local time," he said, waving the papers in Sherlock's reluctant face. "There, I'll have a group waiting for you. I've scheduled you for guest lectures at the listed universities." He frowned, and lowered his voice. "Do try to be polite. And for goodness sake, don't sleep with any of the students."

Sherlock snatched the list off of his brother with a tight scowl. He didn't speak for the rest of the journey, and was pointedly silent as Mycroft and the driver escorted him through the airport, letting his brother speak for him. He acted like he was having a sulk, staring down anyone who glanced at him with his usual haughty scowl. Heathrow airport was large and impersonal and Sherlock didn't care for it and it's stupid security measures one bit. He cared even less for the tired passengers that dotted around the place, although he passed the time by deducing their destinations in his head.

As a watchful Mycroft walked him to his gate, Sherlock deliberately slammed his shoulder into an airport assistant, as if still in a rotten mood.

"Sherlock," his brother said in a reproachful tone. "Please, behave."

"Yes dear," Sherlock replied, hiding the new fake passport he'd just been passed deep in the pockets of his coat.


End file.
